


Remember Me

by thehistorygeek



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 123,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehistorygeek/pseuds/thehistorygeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield are destined to suffer. In every life they live, in every age, in every era, they meet, and this meeting brings back all the memories of the lives that have come before. But every meeting serves also as a death sentence, for once they have met, one of them is doomed to die soon after, usually tragically and prematurely. They remember nothing of their past lives until they meet, and once they have there is nothing that can be done to stop their fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through the Heather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland, 1745  
> 2nd Life  
>  _The Jacobites_

Ben MacDonell ran through the forest, weaving between trees and jumping deftly over fallen logs. His feet slipped on dead leaves slick from the recent rain, and he grabbed onto an overhanging branch to keep from falling. Behind him, he could hear the sound of multiple pairs of feet pounding against the earth, running to catch up to him. A grin spread across his face, and he slowed down slightly. The feet grew closer, and he turned to see the small hoard of children mere metres away from him.

“Ben! You’re too fast!” one of the children whined, one hand on her head to keep her bonnet from slipping off.

“Then run faster!” Ben called back, and the girl scowled angrily at him, trying as best as she could to speed up. “You’ll never catch me!”

“Yes we will!” another one of the children called.

“You can try, but you’ll never succeed,” Ben teased, though even as he said this he slowed down even more until he was just out of reach of the children.

One of the older boys reached out his hands and ran faster, pulling away from the rest of the group. Jumping forward, he pounced for Ben, who turned just in time to be tackled and thrown on his back to the ground. The group of children piled on top of him, giggling and squealing in delight.

“We got you!” another boy yelled, smiling widely.

“That’s what you think!” Ben answered, wrapping his arms around the small group of children and heaving them off of him until he could stand up, his back damp and covered in leaves. They all immediately lunged for his legs, wrapping their small frames around them so he couldn’t escape. Still, Ben slowly started trudging forward, dragging his feet along the ground as he was unable to lift them. Thankfully, they were near the edge of the forest so he was able to plow his way out of the woods and into a small field that bordered the village.

Once there, he let himself fall to the ground where he was once more overtaken. He struggled with his attackers, pushing them off here and there, complaining about how strong and heavy they were.

“I do not think I can take you all!” he told them, huffing as they came at him with renewed vigour.

“Having some trouble, cousin?”

Ben tilted his head back to see his cousin, Douglas, standing above him, smirking. “Ah, hello, Douglas,” he greeted. “I actually have the situation under control, thank you.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow at him. “I am sure that you do,” he said, before looking at the children. “Come on now, my strong lads and lasses. Leave poor Benny alone.”

The children let out several pouty whines, but obediently rolled off of Ben and stood up.

“We’ll be back for you!” one of them warned as they turned to return to the village, though her childish voice made it significantly non-threatening.

“I’ll get you next time!” Ben replied, standing up and dusting himself off as best as he could.

“Should you not be working?” Douglas asked as the children disappeared down the hill.

Ben scowled. “Should you not be spending time with your bonnie new wife?” he retorted. “Your party is tomorrow, and I would think you still have much to do to prepare.” His scowl turned to a smirk, and Douglas gave him a rather unimpressed look.

“Fergus was looking for you,” he explained. “I was sent to find you, and I’ve just spent the last hour wandering around asking if anyone knew where you were. The blacksmith finally told me that you’d run off to the forest with a herd of children at your heels.”

“They thought they were faster than me,” Ben replied. “I had to prove them wrong.”

“Is that why you were on the ground?” Douglas asked, one eyebrow raised.

Ben shrugged. “I let them win,” he said. “Next time it will not be so easy.”

Douglas let out a snort of laughter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sure that is the truth,” he told him. “But we’ve no more time for chatting—Fergus has called for a meeting.”

Ben furrowed his brows together, scowling. Fergus was the chieftain of Clan MacDonell of Glengarry, which itself was a branch of the larger Clan Donald, one of the largest clans in the Highlands. This made Fergus a rather powerful and influential man, at least in the north-east of Scotland, where the clan resided. He was also Ben’s great-uncle, and Douglas’s grandfather.

Fergus had been the chieftain of Clan MacDonell of Glengarry all of Ben’s life. As a young child, he would see his great-uncle only once a year when his family travelled from their estate near the coast to Invergarry Castle, where Ben’s grandfather had grown up, the youngest of five children. Then, when he was only six years old, a wave of smallpox had swept through their village, and both his mother and father had died. Ben was sent to live at Invergarry Castle, where he was cared for chiefly by his father’s cousin, Iain, and his wife, Edna. Douglas had been overjoyed to have a cousin his own age to play with, and the two had spent their days running through the castle halls creating as much mischief as they could.

Even then, Fergus had been a very fierce, serious man. Douglas, Ben, and Douglas’s younger brother, Gregor, had all been terrified of him as children, though he was never unkind or harsh with them. He was simply a very serious, imposing man. Still, they had avoided him as much as possible, and acts of bravery had consisted of sneaking into his office and stealing a quill or a roll of paper.

Heaving a sigh, Ben stood once more. “Do you know what it is about?” he asked his cousin, and Douglas smiled, throwing an arm across his shoulders.

“Prince Charles has come to Scotland,” he announced.

 ◊◊◊

Alasdair MacElheran swung one leg over the saddle of his horse, dismounting in one quick jump. He had been riding all day, and was sore and stiff, but he had finally reached his destination, which was some consolation for his aching muscles. It had taken him over a week to travel from his home in Clan Donald territory further south to the large village near Invergarry Castle, where his sister and her husband lived.

Tying his horse to the post outside his sister’s home, he grabbed the largest packs from off the saddle, slinging them over his shoulder. He would grab the rest later when he moved the horse to the stables, but for now he was anxious to be inside with his family. It had been nearly half a year since he had last seen them, and a visit was long overdue.

Adjusting the packs on his shoulder, he hurried to the door, rapping it twice in quick succession. He could hear someone scuffling inside, and a moment later the door was opened by a maid who quickly stepped to the side to reveal his sister, swollen from pregnancy but with a wide smile on her face.

“Alasdair!” she cried, lifting her skirts so she could run forward and throw her arms around her brother.

“Hello, Elspeth,” he greeted, grinning and returning her hug. After several seconds he pulled back, his hands on her shoulders. “My Lord, look at you! You’re about ready to burst!”

Elspeth scoffed and stepped aside to shuffle him indoors, closing the door behind them. Her husband, Rory, appeared in the entryway from down the corridor and walked over to them, clasping his hand tightly around Alasdair’s.

“It’s good to see you again,” Rory said, and Alasdair nodded, giving him a happy smile in return.

“Mary will show you to your room, where you can leave your things,” Elspeth told him, nodding to the young maid who had opened the door. “You can wash up a bit and then come back down. I’ll have Mrs. Burns fix you up something—you must be starving.”

Alasdair turned to Mary, who bowed her head and ushered him up the nearby stairs to his room, one he often stayed in when he visited his sister. As he entered, Mary curtsied and left the room, closing the door behind her. Leaving his bags at the foot of the bed, Alasdair cleaned his face and hands in the washbasin in the corner of the room, and then changed out of the clothes that he had been wearing for most of his travelling. Then he returned downstairs and made his way to the dining room, where his sister’s cook, Mrs. Burns, had laid out a bowl of stew and several pieces of bread for him.

Elspeth and Rory arrived behind him from the sitting room and sat with him while he ate, asking of his travels. Alasdair in turn asked them of their lives, and how they had fared since he saw them last.

“I am quite ready to have this little bairn out,” Elspeth said with a laugh, resting her hands on her swollen stomach. “The midwife said that he is due in just a few more weeks.”

“You are confident that it is a boy?” Alasdair asked, and Elspeth nodded.

“Though I wish for a girl,” she added. “But I believe that we shall have another wee lad.”

“Speaking of wee lads, where is the first?” Alasdair questioned. He had not seen any sign of his nephew since his arrival, which was odd. The young boy had turned three during the months since Alasdair had last visited, and he was rather loud and mischievous. 

“Napping,” Elspeth answered. “Though I suspect that he’ll be awake soon, so you haven’t long to wait.” She stood, and Alasdair and Rory rose after her. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go continue our conversations in the sitting room, where it’s more comfortable.”

Alasdair followed his sister down the corridor to the sitting room, where he sat in a soft, plush chair near the fireplace. Once they were all settled, Elspeth turned to her brother.

“Have you heard much from Ronald?” she asked. “I wish he had joined you, as it’s been far longer since I last saw him.”

 “He told me he will be visiting after the baby is born,” Alasdair explained, though he frowned slightly. Their younger brother, Ronald, had never been a very responsible person. To Alasdair, it seemed as if he had never matured past eighteen, though he was now in his early twenties. He spent his time roaming the Highlands, and sometimes Alasdair would go months without hearing anything from him. It worried their parents something dreadful, and he knew that they feared Ronald had become a criminal or was even rotting in jail. And if Alasdair was being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have been horribly surprised to find out that their fears were actually reality.

Elspeth sighed, and Alasdair knew she didn’t believe that Ronald would keep his promise. He hadn’t met her first child until the boy was almost one year old, and he didn’t believe that this time would be different.

“I will see him eventually,” she decided after a moment, and that was something Alasdair had no trouble believing. She would hunt their brother down herself if she had to.

“But enough about Ronald and his many shortcomings,” Elspeth continued, settling her hands in her lap. “How are Mother and Father?”

They spoke at length about their parents, as well as many other people from their village. This evolved into the telling of childhood stories, and Rory sat there listening with a smile on his face, occasionally asking questions. He had no doubt heard most of the stories already, but many that included some of Elspeth’s more embarrassing moments had been kept from him, and so Alasdair gladly told them while his sister sat glaring at him.

Eventually, a cry was heard upstairs and Elspeth stood, leaving the room. She returned a few moments later, holding her son’s small hand in her own.

The little boy’s face brightened as he entered the room with his mother and caught sight of his uncle sitting near the fireplace. “Uncle!” he cried, wiggling his arm until Elspeth let him go. Then he ran as fast as his small legs could take him to where Alasdair sat, and leaned against his uncle’s knees. “Uncle!” he repeated, smiling widely.

“Hello, Frankie,” Alasdair greeted, picking his nephew up and sitting him on his lap. “You’ve grown so much since I saw you last!”

“I’m three!” Frankie announced proudly, grinning at his uncle.

“My goodness, you are, aren’t you?” Alasdair asked. “You’re getting very big, lad. You’ll be very strong one day, won’t you?”

Frankie nodded, giggling. “Like Da,” he said, looking over at Rory, who smiled.

“Aye, just like him,” Alasdair agreed with a nod, bouncing the small boy on his knee.

“And you,” Frankie added, looking back to Thorin. “You’re the strongest, Uncle.”

Thorin grinned and kissed the top of his nephew’s head. “I’ve missed you, lad. Did you know that?”

“I missed you, too, Uncle!” Frankie said with a wide smile.

 ◊◊◊

Fergus MacDonell’s office was on the top floor of Invergarry Castle. It was not often that Ben visited the room, and the last time had been many months before. That day, there was a bustle of activity around the office, with people wandering in and out and milling around the corridors. Most of them appeared to be lairds from the surrounding area and the more important people from the nearby village. Gregor was there, as well, and when he spotted Ben and Douglas coming down the hallway he hurried towards them.

“Come on, now,” he said, pushing them both towards Fergus’s office. “Dad’s in there already, and Granda’s getting impatient.”

“Then we best not keep him waiting anymore,” Douglas said, and lead them through the small crowd into the office.

Fergus was standing behind his desk, with Iain beside him. A laird that Ben vaguely recognized was speaking with the chieftain, but when Ben and Douglas entered he quickly ended the conversation and motioned for them to come closer.

“What took you so long?” he asked as they approached the desk.

“I wasn’t in the village,” Ben said, bowing his head slightly. “I was in the forest with some local children, and Douglas couldn’t find me. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Fergus frowned, sighing. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s much that can be done about it now,” he decided. “Gregor, go and get everyone else. It’s time we got this meeting underway.”

Gregor nodded and left, returning a few moments later with the rest of the assembled men. As they all entered the office, Fergus moved to the front of his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t say anything for a moment, before giving them all a small smile and starting, “As you have all heard, Prince Charles has arrived in Scotland.”

The room erupted into cheers, and Douglas slung his arm over Ben’s shoulder, shaking him happily. Fergus waited a moment for them all to calm before continuing.

“As I have heard, he landed on Eriskay two days ago and is now residing near Loch nan Uamh with Clan Ranald,” he informed them. “I do not know how long he will stay there, but it’ll probably not be long. But what I do know is that Prince Charles is here to raise an army, and the MacDonells of Glengarry will support him and his claim to the throne!”

There was a second round of approving cheers, and Ben smiled as he clapped. He knew that, if Prince Charles succeeded in mustering an army, he would be among the ranks to fight against the British. The coming year would most likely not be an easy one, but the idea of their Jacobite rebellion having the chance to succeed was enough to make him grin and cheer, any thoughts of hardship far away.

◊◊◊

That evening, Alasdair sat with Elspeth and Rory in their parlour after dinner. Frankie had been put to bed long ago, and as the sun set Mary went around and lit the candles and lamps, stoking the fires to make sure they stayed lit.

“There is to be a party at the castle tomorrow,” Elspeth said after she had gone. “It is to celebrate the marriage of the chieftain’s grandson, Douglas. He is a good friend of Rory’s, and we have all been invited, if you would like to go.” She looked at Alasdair, eyebrows raised in question.  

“I would not like to intrude on a marriage celebration,” Alasdair argued, and Elspeth sighed, as if she had been expecting his answer. He continued, “I know neither the bride nor the groom, and I don’t want to appear rude.”

“I told Douglas a few days ago that you would be here for the party,” Rory told him. “He said he would very much like to meet you, and insisted that you come. We have both known him for a very long time.”

Alasdair said nothing for a moment. “Then I suppose I must accept,” he said eventually. “Though I doubt my dear sister would have given me much choice.”

“You are very correct there,” Elspeth said, smirking. “Many of our other friends will be there, and I would like for you to meet them. They are all very nice, and it’ll be a very fun time. So you should look forward to it.”

“Yes, madam,” Alasdair said, his expression one of mock seriousness.

Elspeth scowled at him for a moment before grinning, shaking her head. “Now come,” she said, adjusting herself in her seat. “Tell me all the news from home. How are the neighbours and tenants?”

◊◊◊

Ben stood in the great hall, watching as the large room slowly filled up with guests. They had begun arriving only a few moments ago, and most were still chatting with either Fergus or Iain; both Douglas and his new wife, Margaret, were still upstairs, and would not be making an appearance until most of the guests had arrived.

Sighing, he clasped his hands behind his back, looking from guest to guest. He spotted his two cousins, Gregor and Fenella, standing off to the side talking, and wandered over to them, unsure of what else to do. He had never much enjoyed these social events hosted by his great-uncle, and he rarely knew any of the guests very well. Still, he felt anxious and uncomfortable standing in the corner alone, and he had not seen either of his cousins for more than a few minutes all day.

He stood with them, chatting, as the hall quickly filled up with people until it was full of the sounds of music and laughter. Eventually, as the music died down, Fergus stood at the front of the room, Iain by his side. Opening his arms, he welcomed them all to his home to help celebrate this wonderful occasion.

“It has been long since a wedding was last celebrated at Invergarry,” he said, beaming widely at the crowd. “And it is with great pride that I announce to you my eldest grandson, Douglas, and his bonnie bride, Margaret.”

The room exploded into a loud round of applause, people cheering and clapping as they all turned to the set of stairs on the other side of the room, where Douglas stood arm-in-arm with Margaret. They were both smiling widely as they descended, Margaret’s long skirt trailing behind her.

“I do wonder how Douglas convinced her to marry him,” Gregor said quietly to Ben. “She’s the loveliest thing I ever did see; too lovely for the likes of him.”

“And the likes of you,” Ben retorted, smirking.

Fenella scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so crude, Gregor,” she scolded. “Be happy for Douglas. He’s loved her for years.”

“I’m happy,” Gregor argued, scowling at his older sister.

Ben grinned at the two, shaking his head, before turning his attention back to Douglas and Margaret, who were now in the crowd greeting their guests. They both looked immensely happy, Margaret with her hand looped around Douglas’s elbow as they travelled through the hall to where Fergus and Iain stood. Ben couldn’t help but wonder, for a moment, if he would ever be happy like that, or if he would ever even marry. He had never much enjoyed the thought of marriage and could not, in all honesty, ever see himself in Douglas’s place, with a beautiful bride on his arm. All his life he had felt that way, and he was now beginning to feel as if there was something wrong with that—he and Douglas were the same age, and soon people would no doubt start expecting Ben to find a wife as well. The idea both frightened him and made him feel incredibly uneasy.

He was pulled from his thoughts by Gregor yanking on his arm. “Come on, Ben,” his younger cousin said. “Let’s go find something to drink!”

Forcing a smile, Ben nodded and complied, and they went off in search of drinks while Fenella wandered off to socialize. But as they made their way through the mass of people filling the hall, they were stopped suddenly by Douglas, who called them over to where he was standing with a good friend of his, Rory Blair, the younger brother of a local laird. Rory had grown up in the village near Invergarry Castle, and had known both Douglas and Ben since they were children. He was a year older than them, but was a good friend and always had been.

“Rory!” Ben greeted, pushing all his earlier thoughts from his mind as he approached the two, Gregor in tow.

“Hello, Ben,” Rory replied, reaching out to shake his hand and nodding at Gregor in greeting.

“How is Elspeth? And Frankie?” Ben asked.

“They’re quite well,” Rory answered. “Elspeth’s brother has come for a visit, which I told Douglas the other day. He is here with Elspeth somewhere; once I find them...” he paused, scanning the crowd. “...I shall introduce him to you all.”

Douglas nodded. “His name is Alasdair, is it not?”

“Aye,” Rory said. “Alasdair MacElheran. You would have met him earlier, most likely, but it has been a year since his last visit, and then it was only for a short while.” He stopped, stretching to see above the heads of the people around him, and his face brightened suddenly. “Ah, there they are! Elspeth! Elspeth!”

A few moments later, Elspeth appeared in front of them, smiling her bright, cheerful smile. “Hello, hello!” she greeted. “It’s madness in here! Absolutely impossible to find anyone.”

“Hello, Elspeth,” Douglas said. “This must be your brother.”

It is then that Ben noticed the tall, dark-haired man standing behind Elspeth, and for a second he wondered how he hadn’t seen him earlier before the man looked at him with strikingly blue eyes and Ben felt all the breath leave his body.

The last time he had seen those eyes had been very long ago, and then there had been no life in them—they had been staring, blind, at a cloudy sky full of eagles, and Bilbo had cried until he felt he could cry no more.

But now he was once again looking into those light blue eyes, and there was life in them. Bilbo could do nothing but stand there, dumbstruck, unsure of what was happening. The man in front of him was dead—he had been dead for many decades. Wild-eyed, he glanced at the others gathered around him, hoping to find answers in them. Instead, he found only more questions, for when he looked at Douglas memories flooded him of his cousin Drogo who had drowned while boating on the Brandywine River many years ago, but was now standing in front of him, whole and well.

Sucking in a deep breath, he looked back to the man—to Thorin. He looked just as confused and shocked as Bilbo did, but he said nothing.

“Ben.” Bilbo was suddenly aware that someone was calling his name, and he turned towards Drogo, or Douglas, now unsure of what to call him.

“Are you alright?” his cousin asked, a look of concern on his face.

“I, uh,” Bilbo stopped, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Purposefully avoiding Thorin’s gaze, he took in a deep breath, straightening himself. “Yes, I’m perfectly alright. Sorry.”

Drogo didn’t look as if he entirely believed him, but he said nothing, looking back towards Elspeth and Thorin. “As I was saying, this is my cousin, Ben,” he said, motioning first at Bilbo and then towards Thorin. “Ben, this is Alasdair, Elspeth’s older brother.”

Bilbo reached out his hand and Thorin took it, shaking it. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, giving a small smile.

Thorin nodded. “You as well.”

◊◊◊

Bilbo left the hall as soon as he could, quickly excusing himself from the conversation and slipping quietly through the doors. Once in the hallway he leaned against the wall, taking deep, measured breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Though he had remained collected on the outside, inside he had been slowly growing more and more confused and anxious. He didn’t know what to do with the memories that had suddenly flooded his mind, and he didn’t understand why Thorin Oakenshield, of all people, had triggered their return.

He stood there for several minutes, attempting to work it all out in his mind and wondering whether or not he should return to the great hall. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the door swinging open and Thorin walking out into the corridor, an almost panicked look on his face.

The panic seemed to ease though when he spotted Bilbo standing only a few feet from the door. “Master Baggins!” he cried, hurrying over to where he stood.

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, and the assurance that Thorin also remembered both relieved and confused him. “I... Do... Please tell me you know what’s going on.”

“I have no idea,” Thorin admitted, his brow furrowing. “And it seems neither do you.”

Bilbo shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “You... died. And I believe I must’ve died as well.”

Thorin paled suddenly. “In the battle?” he asked, taking a step closer. “Were you hurt?”

“What?” Bilbo gave him a confused look, before realization dawned on him. “Oh, no, no, not in the battle. I lived to be quite old, actually. Nearly made it to 135.”

Thorin relaxed considerably, smiling slightly. “Almost as old as I was,” he pointed out.

Bilbo chuckled. “I didn’t look half as young at 135 as you did at 195,” he said.

“That is still quite the feat for a Hobbit, is it not?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded.

“I was the oldest Hobbit to ever live,” he said, before pausing. “That’s odd to think about. I was so old... and now I’m young again, but I still have all those memories. My mind does not feel old, though. I simply remember being old.”

“We are both young now,” Thorin observed. “How old are you?”

“Only twenty-three,” Bilbo answered, and he sounded as if he didn’t quite believe himself.

Thorin nodded. “I am twenty-five,” he said. “It is... strange.”

Bilbo laughed. “This entire situation is strange,” he said. “I really don’t know what to make of it.”

“It seems almost like a second chance,” Thorin said. “At what, I don’t know. But it’s like we have been allowed to have another try.”

Bilbo tilted his head to the side, considering this. “Do you suppose that’s really it?” he asked, and Thorin shrugged.

“It is as good an explanation as any,” he offered. “But to me it makes sense.”

◊◊◊

Bilbo sat at his desk, a blank piece of parchment rolled out in front of him. His quill hovered above the paper, poised to write out the words that were flying around his mind. He had only slept for a few hours that night, and the sun was just beginning to creep above the horizon. The entire castle was quiet, and outside only a few people were stirring, just starting to commence their daily tasks.

A drop of ink rolled from his quill and splattered onto the parchment, and Bilbo heaved a small sigh as he put the quill back into the well. All night he had tossed and turned, trying and failing to find sleep. The events of the previous evening replayed themselves in his mind constantly, and all he could think about was what it all meant. He had thought that writing it out would help, remembering how, as Bilbo Baggins, he would write stories and memoirs and poetry. But it appeared that as Ben MacDonell, all his former eloquence and skill at writing didn’t exist, or had left him for the time being. He had been staring at the same blank sheet for a quarter of an hour now and still had no idea how or where to begin.

So instead he took the ink-stained paper and crumbled it up, tossing it onto the embers still burning in his fireplace. He watched as it caught fire and burned quickly until all that was left were charred flakes of paper and then stood. He was already dressed for the day, and grabbed his jacket as he left, not entirely sure where he was going but feeling a need to leave the castle.

The morning air was cool as Bilbo stepped outside, but he knew that the day would be hot. He found his feet unconsciously carrying him towards the village, and he wandered through the quiet streets that he had known all his life and ended up quite suddenly in front of the home of Rory Blair. Thorin had told him the night before that that was where he was staying, and though Bilbo hadn’t planned on going there he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

He stood in front of the house for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. It was too early to go up and knock on the door, but he didn’t think he would be able to simply walk away.

“Master Baggins?”

He turned at the sound of his name to see Thorin standing behind him. He suddenly felt very stupid, figuring that he must have looked ridiculous standing in front of someone’s house before the sun had even fully risen.

“Thorin...” he said, his voice faltering as his mind drew a blank on what to say.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo flushed, trying to come up with a viable excuse.

“I... I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, wincing at his own words. “I couldn’t sleep last night and I decided to go for a walk to try and... clear my head, I suppose. I didn’t mean to come here, it sort of just... happened.”

Thorin watched him for a moment before nodding. “I could not sleep either,” he said. “I went out to the stables a short while ago to try and take my mind off of things, though it didn’t really work.”

Bilbo nodded. “I kept thinking that when I woke it would all turn out to be a dream,” he said. “And though it is still very confusing, I... I wanted it all to be real.”

“I’m glad it is real, then,” Thorin said, smiling. “It’s very nice to see you again.”

Bilbo smiled, looking towards the nearby woods, where birds were chirping in the trees, and neither of them said anything for a moment.

“Would you...” he started after several seconds but paused, crossing his arms over his chest and turning back to face Thorin. “Would you like to take a walk?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at him. “A walk?”

Bilbo nodded. “I have always found them calming, in a way,” he explained. “Especially in the mornings. I know this place we can go to; it is not very far away, and it’s very beautiful.” When Thorin didn’t say anything right away, he quickly added, “But you don’t have to go, if you do not want to. It was simply a... suggestion.”

“No, no,” Thorin said, a smile spreading across his face. “I would love to go for a walk with you.”

Bilbo grinned widely, almost in spite of himself. “Great,” he said with a nod. “Excellent.”

“I’ll just run inside and grab some food to take with us,” Thorin said, motioning towards the house. “I haven’t had breakfast yet—I’ll only be a moment.”

Bilbo nodded again, and Thorin turned and hurried into the house. He reappeared a few minutes later with a small covered basket and they set out. Bilbo led the way, taking them away from the village and the castle. He often walked as a way to clear his head and to escape the sometimes hectic life at Invergarry Castle. Normally he was alone, but sometimes his cousins and friends would come along. Occasionally, he would spend an entire day walking—he would pack some food and a book and leave at dawn, not returning until the sun was almost set. There were some parts in the area surrounding the castle that were absolutely breathtaking, some of which were only a short walk from the village.

As he led them through the small forest outside the village, neither of them spoke. A thin early-morning mist clung to the ground, obscuring the trees and giving them an almost eerie look in the dim light. Eventually leaving the forest behind, they entered a wide open area covered in long green grass and scattered rocks. Here, the ground climbed gradually upwards, and hills and mountains could be seen through the haze.

“It’s beautiful,” Thorin said, pausing. A large lake glimmered faintly in the distance, nestled between the mountains.

“I have always loved it here,” Bilbo agreed, and pointed to the lake. “That’s Loch Ness there,” he explained, before turning and pointing to another, smaller lake. “And that’s Loch Oich. You can see Invergarry Castle there on the shore.”

“It’s really amazing,” Thorin said. “Loch Ness looks as if it stretches on forever.”

“It’s over thirty kilometres long—nearly all the way to Inverness,” Bilbo said. “I will have to take you there one day.”

Thorin smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

They continued walking, climbing slowly as the sun rose higher in the sky and the mist dissipated. The ground, which had been damp when they started, dried, and heat began to fill the air. Gradually the climb steepened, and as they walked they talked of their lives.

“I don’t have any siblings,” Bilbo said, stepping over a rock covered over in moss and lichen. “My parents died when I was only six from smallpox.”

“Oh,” Thorin said, slightly shocked. “I’m sorry.”

Bilbo shrugged. “I barely remember them now,” he admitted. “Though I suppose they must have been quite like they were before. In Middle-earth, I mean.”

“What were their names?”

“Before they were Belladonna and Bungo Baggins,” he said, smiling a bit. “But here they were Isobel and Gordon MacDonell.” He paused for a moment before turning to Thorin. “What about your family?”

“Most are still alive,” Thorin answered. “By the time we had met, in Middle-earth, most of them were dead. My parents, my brother, my brother-in-law. My brother was named Frerin then, and had died in battle when he was only forty-eight. I suppose that seems rather old now, but that was very young for a dwarf. Fíli and Kíli were eighty-two and seventy-seven when they died, and they were still considered teenagers.”

Bilbo stared at him for a moment. “I never knew,” he said. “That’s horrible. But he is alive now?”

Thorin nodded. “His name is Ronald,” he told him. “He’s your age. But he’s... not very responsible. He spends his time travelling with questionable people, and my mother fears he’s going to get himself in trouble with the Redcoats one of these days.”

“It’s likely that we’ll all soon be in trouble with the Redcoats,” Bilbo said, and though it was said lightheartedly there was a serious tone to his voice.

“Aye,” Thorin agreed with a nod. “That is true.”

They walked on for a few more minutes in silence, before Bilbo continued, “You mentioned Fíli and Kíli earlier. Do you think Frankie is Fíli?”

Thorin seemed to think for a moment. “I’m confident that he is, aye,” he answered. “He looks much like Fíli did as a young child, and has the beginnings of his personality.”

“Do you suppose this next baby will be Kíli then?”

Thorin smiled. “I hope so,” he said. “Elspeth thinks that it will be a boy.”

“I never met your sister, in Middle-earth,” Bilbo said. “Her name was Dís, correct?” Thorin nodded, and Bilbo grinned. “I’m happy I met her here.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. The climb was now quite steep, but Bilbo assured Thorin that they were almost at their destination.

“In a month, these hills will be purple with heather,” he said, motioning to the area around them. “You can see a few flowers on the bushes already. I normally come here around then—that’s when it’s most beautiful.”

“I would love to see it,” Thorin said. “I do not know how long I’m staying, but I hope it will be long enough to see that.”

Bilbo smiled. “I do as well,” he said.

Thorin watched him for a moment before turning away and continuing to walk. They went on for a short while longer before finally stopping atop a large hill covered in long grass and bushes of heather. Loch Ness could now be seen much more clearly, as well as the surrounding mountains. Walking to the very top, Bilbo sat down and stretched out, smiling contentedly.

“It’s gorgeous up here,” Thorin said, sitting down beside Bilbo.

“It’s one of my favourite spots,” Bilbo said. “You can spend your entire day here and never see a soul.”

“It’s very peaceful.”

Bilbo looked at him, and it was almost as if he wanted to say something. Thorin thought he was going to, but then he looked away, picking at the leaves of a nearby heather bush. So instead they sat in silence, simply enjoying the view.

Finally, after several minutes had passed, Bilbo looked up from where he had been staring at the ground. He didn’t look at Thorin, instead focusing his gaze on the far-off horizon, and took in a deep breath.

“All last night, I was thinking,” he said. “About everything that happened in Middle-earth. The quest and the Company and my life after... And I remember thinking of you all the time and one day realizing that... I loved you. Quite a bit, I think.”

Thorin looked at him, his mouth slightly open. Bilbo had turned away, and was sitting completely frozen.

“I know it’s not an... acceptable thing to say,” he continued, still refusing to look at Thorin. “But I spent an entire lifetime regretting not saying it when I had the chance. I don’t want to miss that opportunity again. I’m... sorry, I guess.” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, reaching out and putting his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Bilbo, please look at me.”

Reluctantly, Bilbo turned to face him, though he refused to meet his eyes. Thorin’s hand stayed on his shoulder.

“Do you still love me?” he asked.

Bilbo did nothing for a moment, before slowly nodding his head. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Thorin smiled and moved his hand to Bilbo’s chin. His heart was pounding in his chest and it felt as if his entire body was shaking—he had loved Bilbo for a long time, though it had taken him a while to realize it and he had not been brave enough to tell him before he died. But he was telling him now, and that was all that mattered.

Tilting Bilbo’s head up, Thorin leaned in and kissed him. It was just a slight brush of their lips and they were only together for a few seconds, but Thorin felt all the breath leave his body. As he pulled away, Bilbo gave him an absolutely shocked look and he smiled, reaching down to grab Bilbo’s hands.

“I love you, too,” he confessed, and Bilbo’s shock turned to joy and he pulled Thorin close to kiss him once more.

◊◊◊

**3 Weeks Later**

Bilbo stood atop a tall hill overlooking Loch Oich, a musket in his hand and a sword at his waist. He was surrounded by several dozen of his clansmen, and Fergus stood in front of him, staring out across the lake. Just a few hours ago they had received news that a company of Royal Scots were travelling to the nearby Fort Augustus and had been waylaid by a small group of MacDonalds of Keppoch. Fergus had quickly gathered them all to prepare to fight and help the MacDonalds, their kinsman, and they had marched from Invergarry Castle only two hours ago. Now they stood waiting for the Redcoats to appear, knowing that they would try to seek refuge at the castle.

They did not have to wait long. Soon a group of about eighty men could be seen moving swiftly in their direction. Fergus gave the order for them to advance and they marched down the hill, preparing to confront the Redcoats. As they marched, Bilbo could see two other groups of Jacobites approaching the British soldiers and realized that the Royal Scots would soon be surrounded, being now far outnumbered.

In only a few minutes time, the Redcoats were completely surrounded by the Jacobites. Fergus ordered them to halt, and Bilbo stood with the others, watching as a group of MacDonalds of Keppoch approached the British soldiers and forced them to surrender. A short while later, Fergus turned them around and marched them back to Invergarry Castle.

No blood had been shed by the Jacobites and while no one said it aloud, they all knew that the Rising had unofficially begun.

◊◊◊

It was nearing the late afternoon, and the sun was just beginning to descend into the west. Thorin was strolling through the gardens of the castle with Dís and Fíli, watching as the young boy ran ahead to explore. In Dís’s arms was a small bundle, wrapped tightly in a blanket—Thorin’s younger nephew, just over a week old. He had come two weeks before the midwife thought he would, but he was perfectly healthy and just the right size. Dís and Víli had named him Christopher, but the moment Thorin had first held him he had known that he was Kíli. He had struggled to keep from crying, and had apologized to him as quietly as he could over and over again.

Now, one week later, Thorin could still barely contain his disbelief whenever he looked at his youngest nephew. It almost felt like he had been transported back in time, back to Middle-earth and the drafty halls of Ered Luin. Dís had teased him for acting so sentimental, and Thorin had just laughed it off.

Beside him, Kíli started crying, rousing Thorin from his thoughts. Dís quickly started comforting the baby, hushing him and rocking him gently. She looked stressed, and Thorin couldn’t blame her. It had now been several hours since Fergus had left the castle with dozens of clansmen to go help in a fight against a battalion of Redcoats, and both Víli and Bilbo had been among them. Thorin had wished to join them, but had been in the forest with Fíli when Douglas had arrived to collect Víli, and by the time he had returned they had all left. So instead he had decided to take his sister and young nephews for a walk, hoping to distract both himself and Dís, who was driving herself mad with worry.

“Don’t fret so much, Elspeth,” he told her as they walked, reminding himself not to call her Dís. Though she hadn’t said anything, he knew that she was thinking about her husband.

“You should take your own advice, dear brother,” she said, scoffing. “You look just as worried as I feel.”

“I just wish I was there with them,” Thorin said. “I feel useless here.”

“It’s not some grand battle they’re marching off to,” Dís said. “Simply some... skirmish with the Redcoats. There is no reason for either of us to be worried.”

“Yet here we are,” Thorin said with a laugh.

“Aye,” Dís said, looking down at her baby with a sad look. “Here we are, spending your last day with us anxious and worried.”

Thorin frowned. He did not want to go, but he had responsibilities to tend to. He would be leaving Dís and his nephews in the morning, though he would not immediately return home. First he would accompany the MacDonells to Glenfinnan, where a meeting between the Jacobites and Prince Charles had been planned, and afterwards would return to his home with a small group of MacDonalds.

Thankfully, however, he knew he would soon return. Dís had invited him to come for Christmas and he had accepted, knowing it would give him more time with both his nephews and Bilbo.  

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion at the front of the castle. They both paused for a moment, and then Dís was rushing towards the front of the building, where many loud voices could be heard. Thorin wanted to follow after her immediately, but he had to find Fíli first. The little boy was still wandering along the path further ahead, oblivious to anything else that was happening.

“Frankie!” Thorin called, hurrying towards him. “Come on—Da’s back!”

Fíli brightened immediately, letting Thorin take his hand and lead him to the front of the castle. A large group of men were gathered there, all with muskets and swords. Though they looked tired, none were injured—Thorin didn’t see a single man with a bandage or cut anywhere. Hoisting Fíli up into his arms, Thorin moved slowly through the large crowd, searching for his sister. He found her after a few minutes, standing off to the side with Víli. He only stayed for a moment, handing Fíli off to his father, before leaving the small family alone.

He wandered around for a short while before finally spotting Bilbo. He had to keep himself from running to him, but he still quickened his pace, clasping both hands on Bilbo’s shoulders when he reached him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, searching him for any sign of an injury, and Bilbo smiled, nodding.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he answered. “Just a bit tired.”

Thorin let out a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad,” he said. “I was so worried.”

“We didn’t even use our weapons,” Bilbo told him. “We simply surrounded them, and they surrendered. Hardly even a fight—we didn’t lose a single man.”

Thorin smiled. “That’s excellent news,” he said.

Bilbo nodded, before looking to the castle step where his family stood. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’m sorry. My aunt will be looking for me. But meet me later, on the path to your sister’s home. We’ll talk more then.”

“Aye,” Thorin said, with a nod, and Bilbo was gone, disappearing into the crowd. That was how things had been between them for the past three weeks—in public, they would say a few quick words to each other and then go their separate ways. Then, later, they would meet secretly and wander away to somewhere far from the village where no one could stumble upon them. They spent as much time as they could together without arousing suspicion, but that meant only a few hours each day. And soon Thorin would be leaving, and it would be months before he saw him again.

“Alasdair, there you are!” Thorin turned to see Dís walking towards him, Víli trailing behind her with Fíli in his arms. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go home.”

◊◊◊

Bilbo stood leaning against a tree, a book open in his hands. He was at the end of the long path that lead to Rory’s house, lined by a thin forest. From where he stood, he could just barely see the edge of the house, and he was constantly looking up from his book and down the path, hoping to see Thorin.

He finally appeared just as the sun was beginning to set. Bilbo met him halfway down the path and they ducked into the forest, where a narrow trail cut its way through the trees and out of the village. As soon as they were out of sight, Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled him close, relishing in the fact that they were free to be together.

“I’m glad that you made it out alright,” Thorin said, lifting Bilbo’s hand and kissing the back of it. “I would have gone with you, but I was in the forest with Fíli when your cousin arrived to collect Rory. I did not know that you had gone until I returned.”

“It was not much fun anyways,” Bilbo said with a smile. “We just walked to the other end of Loch Oich and back.”

“Still, I heard that two Redcoats were killed,” Thorin said. “And tomorrow we leave for Glenfinnan. Prince Charles is _really_ here, in Scotland. Do you suppose this all means there’s truly going to be a rebellion?”

Bilbo was quiet for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “I suppose it does,” he agreed after a moment. Though he seemed anxious, he smiled. “Perhaps at the end, we shall have a Stuart on the throne.”

“It is not so easy to reclaim a throne,” Thorin said. “I speak from personal experience—it does not always end as you hoped.”

Bilbo frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—”

“Do not be,” Thorin cut in quickly, before Bilbo could say anything else. “I never thought I would live to retake my throne. But I had always hoped that at least one of nephews would become king.”

“Dáin was a good king,” Bilbo said, leaning against Thorin’s shoulder. “At least that’s what Balin told me.”

“I’m sure he was a great king,” Thorin said with a smile.

“You would have made an excellent king, as well,” Bilbo said. They were both silent for a moment before he continued, “Do you really have to leave, once the meeting’s over?”

Thorin sighed, slowing his walk and resting his head on top of Bilbo’s. “Aye, unfortunately,” he replied. “My parents expect me home, and now that my father’s so old he cannot run the estate alone. I cannot stay here forever, though I would love to.”

“I could go with you,” Bilbo suggested. “I’ll make up some lie for my family—I don’t even care if they believe me. I just got you back, Thorin. I’d rather you not leave me again.”

Thorin paused and took a step back, taking Bilbo’s face in his hands. “I’m not leaving you,” he said. “I promise you that. I will never leave you again. Dís has invited me to come for Christmas, so we will be together again before long.”

Bilbo frowned. “You had better write to me,” he said. “Every week, until you come back.”

“I’ll write to you every day if I can,” Thorin promised, and leaned in to kiss him.

◊◊◊

They left for Glenfinnan the next morning. Thorin said goodbye to Dís and his nephews as he and Víli left to join the others at the castle, hugging them tightly and promising that he’d be back in a few months. As they rode off down the path, Fíli waved and called to them, crying out his goodbyes until they were out of sight.

There were a few dozen men already gathered at the castle when they arrived. Many would be riding to Glenfinnan, but others would be walking—Glenfinnan was not too far, but it would take them about ten hours to reach it, as they were all travelling as a group. They would be joined along the way by other members of Clan MacDonell, and would most likely reach Glenfinnan shortly after nightfall.

As they approached the castle, Thorin quickly spotted Bilbo standing with Douglas, holding the reins of a horse in one hand. He looked annoyed about something, though his cousin was laughing. Dismounting, he and Víli walked over to the two, their horses in tow.

“Have you been forced to ride a horse, Ben?” Víli asked, grinning.

Bilbo’s scowl grew deeper. “I have, aye,” he said, huffing and glaring at the horse beside him. “I do not see why I can’t just walk.”

“You’re much too slow, Benny,” Douglas told him with a smirk. “Whenever you walk it is as if you’re simply out for a stroll, no matter the actual situation. You’d just slow us down.”

“Do you not like horses?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo shook his head. “I’ve never liked horses,” he answered. “And they don’t seem to like me either. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been kicked in the chest—”

“That’s because you don’t care for them properly,” Douglas interrupted. “You’re too careless. It’s your own fault you get kicked in the chest.”

“No, I think the bastards just have it out for me,” Bilbo argued. “But even if they didn’t I still would not want to spend ten hours on one.”

“Well I suppose you’ll just have to put up with it,” Douglas said. “Now finish getting ready, for Christ’s sake. We’ll be leaving soon.”

They left about half an hour later. Most of those with horses rode in the front, followed by those on foot with the rest of the riders at the back. Thorin ended up at the back with Víli, while Bilbo and Douglas rode at the front. As the hours passed, however, the groups mixed together, until men from the front were riding near the back beside those on foot. In this way, Thorin ended up near Bilbo and the two slowly moved closer together until they were side-by-side. They stayed like that for the rest of the ride, talking about average, everyday things.

When they finally reached Glenfinnan, the sun had sunken below the horizons and the stars were slowly becoming visible. They set up camp just outside of town and had a quick supper; some stayed up later, talking around the fires, but most retired to their tents, tired from the long trek. As Thorin was about to enter the tent he was sharing with Víli, he caught sight of Bilbo standing a few tents down. He stood, watching him for a moment, until Bilbo noticed him and gave him a tired, but happy, smile and disappeared into his own tent.

◊◊◊

It was raining the next morning when Bilbo woke up. The air was chilly, and he wrapped himself up tighter in his blanket, wanting nothing more than to stay there and sleep some more, though the ground was hard and not at all comfortable. Unfortunately, Drogo was there a few minutes later to rouse him up onto his feet.

“Come on, Benny,” he said, bursting through the tent flap. “You’ve slept enough—there’s no sense in sleeping all morning.”

“You’re letting in the rain,” Bilbo whined, waving an arm at his cousin to try and get him to leave. “Go away, Drogo, I can wake up on my own.”

Drogo chuckled. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because you just called me by someone else’s name. I think you’re more asleep than you realize.”

Bilbo said nothing for a moment, before sitting up with a sigh. “There, I’m awake,” he announced, glaring at Drogo. “Are you satisfied?”

“Don’t be so cranky,” Drogo said, making a face back at his cousin. “Just get dressed and come have something to eat.” With that, he left the tent, letting the flap swing back into place.

A few minutes later Bilbo stepped out into the rain, pulling a jacket over his shoulders. It wasn’t a heavy rain, but it was enough to make everyone damp and cold. Drogo was sitting by a small fire, and as he approached him a bowl of food was passed to him.

“Sorry it’s not warm,” he apologized as Bilbo sat down beside him. “It’s almost impossible to keep a big fire going in this weather.”

Bilbo nodded in understanding and ate the food quickly while Drogo talked.

“Fergus has gone to meet with the chief of Clan MacDonald of Clanranald,” he explained. “I think they’re going to meet Prince Charles, as well.”

“When is the main meeting to take place?” Bilbo asked, setting the spoon down in the bowl.

“Tomorrow, I believe,” Drogo answered. “There are going to be hundreds of people there, from all over the Highlands, all here to show their support for Prince Charles. We could actually win this, Ben.”

“Let us hope that we do,” Bilbo replied.

◊◊◊

The Jacobite Rising began officially the next day. The assembled highlanders gathered near a hill just outside Glenfinnan, where Prince Charles raised his father’s standard and announced his claim to the thrones of Scotland and England. As the pipers played and cries for victory rang out, Bilbo caught sight of Thorin across the crowd and smiled. Beside him, Drogo yelled out in joy and slung his arm across his cousin’s shoulders, and Thorin returned his smile with a wide grin.

◊◊◊

It was early the following morning before Bilbo was able to see Thorin. They had both been too busy the day before to find any time together, and Thorin had quietly woken Bilbo up before the sun had even risen to say goodbye. They stood in the forest now, not too far from the camp but far enough away that no one would be able to see them.

“I’ll be back soon,” Thorin promised, taking Bilbo’s hands into his own and pressing them to his lips. “I will write to you whenever I can until then.”

“Then we’ll figure out a way for us to be together,” Bilbo said. “I will not let you leave without me again after this.”

Thorin nodded. “I would not want to leave without you again,” he said, and pulled him close, one hand tangling itself into Bilbo’s hair.

“Be safe on your way home,” Bilbo told him, burying his face into Thorin’s shoulder. “Don’t die on me again.”

“I shall try my best not to,” Thorin said with a chuckle. Bilbo pulled back and reached up to kiss him, cupping his face in his hands.

“We should probably go back now,” he said after a moment. “They’ll be looking for you.”

Thorin sighed, nodding, and took Bilbo’s hand in his. They didn’t say much during the short walk back to the camp, and were quick to go their separate ways once they left the forest, departing with nothing more than a glance at each other.

Bilbo did not go with Rory to see Thorin off; instead, he stayed with Drogo and helped him pack up their camp. If they wanted to make it back to Invergarry that day, they would have to leave within the hour. Many other clans were staying in Glenfinnan for a few more days, but Fergus wished to return home, saying that there was much planning that needed to be done as quickly as possible. They left soon after Rory returned, travelling throughout the day and reaching Invergarry shortly after nightfall.

◊◊◊

**4 Months Later**

There was thin layer of snow on the ground when Thorin once again stopped his horse in front of his sister’s home. Looking back, he watched his brother bring his own horse to a halt. Frerin had appeared quite suddenly at his house only a few days before and Thorin had made him promise that he would go with him to visit their sister, and to his surprise Frerin had kept that promise.

Jumping down from his horse, he walked over to his brother, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll put the horses in the stable later,” he said. “For now, let’s go inside and see Elspeth and the boys.”

Dís opened the door when they knocked, and nearly fell flat on her face when she saw Frerin standing behind Thorin. “Ronald MacElheran!” she cried. “I thought you’d dropped off the face of the Earth! How... What... What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you and your new bairn,” Frerin said, smiling widely. “It’s been much too long since I last visited.”

“That it has!” Dís agreed, laughing. “Now come inside, you fools, before you let out all the warmth.”

“Now don’t believe that he came here simply because he wanted to,” Thorin said as they stepped inside, stomping the snow off their boots. “He showed up with no warning on my doorstep less than a week ago and I made him promise that he’d come with me to visit you.”

“I’m still glad that he’s here,” Dís said, hugging her younger brother tightly. “Though I’ve half a mind to beat him for disappearing like that all the time.”

“Do not worry, I’ve already done it for you,” Thorin said with a smirk.

“I’m sure you have,” Dís said, pulling back and leading them down a hallway into the parlour, where her maid Mary stood waiting. “Make some tea, please, Mary, and get Effie to bring the boys down,” she told her, and Mary nodded, leaving the room with a quick curtsy.

“Where’s Rory?” Thorin asked sitting down in one of the chairs near the fire; Dís took the other, and Frerin sat down on the couch.

“He has gone to the castle,” Dís explained. “Half of the clan is away in England, and Rory heard that a messenger had arrived with news of them, so he went to see what it was. The chieftain and his grandson, Douglas, are there fighting, as is his nephew, Ben, and you know that Rory is good friends with them both. He’s been worried ever since they left.”

Thorin frowned. He had known that Bilbo was in England; he had told him in his last letter, dated early November. He had not wanted to go, knowing that if he did he wouldn’t be back when Thorin returned, but his cousin had persuaded him. He had apologized profusely before ending his letter, promising that he would come back as soon as possible.

“Do you know how long he’ll be?” Thorin asked, anxious to hear the news himself.  

Dís shrugged. “He only left a short while ago,” she said. “But he knows you’re arriving today, so he’ll be quick. I expect he’ll be home in less than an hour.”

Thorin nodded, tightly clasping his hands together. Dís then turned to Frerin, asking him about what he’d been doing since she last saw him. Thorin had heard most of the story already so he barely listened as Frerin told their sister. Mary arrived soon after with their tea, and a few moments after the nanny, Effie, arrived with Fíli and Kíli.

“Hello there, Frankie,” Thorin greeted his oldest nephew. The boy giggled happily and hurried to his uncle, crawling up onto his lap.

“Hello, Uncle,” he said, smiling widely. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too, laddie,” Thorin said with a grin. “Have you been enjoying being an older brother?”

Fíli nodded proudly, looking over to where Kíli was now cradled in his mother’s arm. “He’s really tiny,” he said.

“You named him Christopher, aye?” Frerin asked, and Dís nodded, taking the baby from Effie.

“Would you like to hold him?” she asked him, and Frerin seemed to hesitate for a moment before nodding. Dís stood, walking over to where he sat and gently laid Kíli in his arms, positioning them correctly.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Thorin joked, and Frerin scowled at him before looking back to the baby.

“His hair is so dark,” he observed. “He looks like you, Elspeth.”

Dís smiled. “Rory thinks he looks like Alasdair,” she said, and Frerin let out a loud laugh, grabbing the baby’s small hand and shaking it gently.

“He kind of does,” he agreed. “And Dad, too; they all have the same nose.”

“He’s going to quite handsome one day,” Thorin said.

Dís laughed. “Of course he is,” she said. “His mother is very beautiful.”

Frerin shrugged. “She’s alright,” he teased, smirking, and Dís glared at him.

Watching the two, Thorin smiled. It had been a long time since he had last been together with his siblings, and it had been even longer since he had known them as Dís and Frerin. By the time Fíli was born, Frerin had been dead for sixty years, and when Erebor was finally reclaimed it had been nearly a century and a half since Thorin had seen his brother. Thorin often thought that Fíli and Kíli were much like the uncle they never knew, though they grew to be much older than he ever was. Hopefully in this life, things would be different.

◊◊◊

Víli returned home as Thorin and Frerin were putting their horses in the stable. He greeted them as he walked his own horse into its stall, his face red from the cold. Though he seemed surprised to see Frerin, he didn’t say much on the matter, instead asking how their trip was and if they had been inside yet.

“Aye, we arrived about an hour ago,” Thorin said, nodding.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Víli apologized. “I was at the castle. A messenger arrived earlier with news of the men in England, and I went to hear what it was.”

“Elspeth told us,” Thorin said. “It was good news, I hope?”

Víli frowned, shaking his head. “They are in retreat, heading north back towards Scotland,” he replied. “There are three British armies waiting for them further south, and they simply do not have the men to fight them.”

“Have any MacDonells been killed?” Thorin asked, anxious to hear confirmation that Bilbo was alright.

“No, not yet,” Víli said, and Thorin fought the urge to sigh in relief. “There have been a few small injuries, as there have been several minor confrontations, but nothing big. Hopefully that doesn’t change.”

“Would the British not try to stop their retreat?” Frerin asked, leaning against a post with his arms crossed over his chest.

“They probably will,” Víli answered, scowling. “Let us just hope that nothing major comes of it.”

From where he stood brushing his horse, Thorin frowned. If Bilbo did not make it back safely, he didn’t know what he would do.

◊◊◊

**1 Week Later**

It was Christmas Eve when, coming over a hill, Bilbo at last saw Invergarry Castle. He and the rest of the men from MacDonell of Glengarry that had gone to England had spent the last several days marching, hoping to reach home as quickly as possible. A few had already left them, and while for some the march would end at Invergarry most still had a day or two left, though they would stay the night in the village before continuing in the morning.

From there it only took them a couple of hours to reach the castle. As they arrived, they were greeted by many people from the town, most of whom were the wives and other family members of the men.

As Bilbo was greeted by his own family, he anxiously searched the crowd, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Thorin. Though he didn’t see him, he did find Rory, who quickly came to greet both him and Drogo.

“I am glad you two made it back alright,” he said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “I wish I could have joined you.”

“It wasn’t much fun,” Drogo said with a grin. “I would have preferred to be here with you.”

“It is good that you were there with your new baby, though,” Bilbo said. “I will have to visit soon and see how he has grown.”

“It seems as if he grows every day,” Rory said. “It is hard to believe he is already four months old.”

“Has Elspeth’s brother returned yet?” Bilbo asked. “I heard that he would be coming back for Christmas.”

“Aye, he returned about a week ago,” Rory answered. “Her other brother, Ronald, was him as well, which was quite the surprise. She hasn’t seen him in over a year.”

“That is a nice surprise,” Drogo agreed. “Will we be seeing you all at the dinner tomorrow? My mother has only just told me that it’s been planned, though I’m sure you’ve already heard.”

Rory laughed, nodding. “Yes, I have already told Edna that we will be there,” he said. “She was ecstatic when I said that Elspeth’s brothers would be with us, as well.”

“Oh, I’m sure she was,” Drogo said with a chuckle. “If my mother has planned it, then most of the town will be there.”

“Your mother’s dinners are always the best,” Rory agreed.

He left soon after that, and Bilbo and Drogo retreated inside, glad to be home, though it would only be for a short while.

◊◊◊

Invergarry’s great hall was already full of people when Thorin arrived with his siblings and Víli. There was a large fire burning in the hearth, and outside snow was falling against the backdrop of a setting sun, creating a very picturesque Christmas scene. In addition to the head table at the front of the room, there were two longer tables in the middle, where the guests would be seated, already laden with plates.

Though he didn’t see Bilbo at first, shortly after their arrival Fergus asked them all to be seated and Bilbo appeared, sitting down across from Frerin. He gave Thorin a wide smile as he sat down, greeting them all happily.

“Ronald, this is my good friend, Ben,” Víli introduced, motioning to Bilbo. “Ben, this is Elspeth and Alasdair’s younger brother, Ronald.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Bilbo said, reaching across the table to shake Frerin’s hand.

“You as well,” Frerin said, smiling.

Before the meal was served, Fergus stood and spoke a few words, mainly about how lucky they had been to return from England with all their men in time to celebrate Christmas. He also spoke about how, while it seemed that they had failed in England, they would soon return and come out victorious, with a Stuart on the throne. His speech was greeted with loud cheers and applause, and as he sat back down the food was brought out and served.

Everyone was cheerful throughout dinner; though many had been unhappy about the defeat in England, Fergus’s speech had renewed hope in them, and they talked excitedly about what the future may bring.

“The new year shall be wonderful,” Dís said with a smile. “Though it will not be easy, I know that we will win.”

“That we shall,” Víli said, nodding in agreement.

“If we had more men, it would become much easier,” Bilbo said. “We retreated from England because we were outnumbered; if we had continued south, we would have been slaughtered. The more men we have, the better chance we have of winning.”

“Then we will find more men, whatever it takes,” Víli said, a determined look on his face.

Thorin frowned. “If only it were so easy,” he said, though no one seemed to hear him.

◊◊◊

After dinner, the tables were moved the side to make space for dancing, and cheerful music played as couples spun and reeled across the floor. As Thorin stood watching Dís and Víli dance, Bilbo walked up beside him, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Can you meet me in the gardens in a few minutes?” he asked, just loud enough for Thorin to hear over the laughter and music.

Slowly, he nodded, and Bilbo smiled, reaching out to just barely brush his arm as he walked away. Thorin’s eyes followed him as he left, quickly disappearing out one of the side doors. Thorin waited until the current song was finished, and as a new one started up he made his way across the room to the main doors, slipping out as quietly as possible.

Bilbo was standing in the middle of the gardens beside what, in the summer, had been a large flowerbed but was now bare, covered in snow. Thorin nearly ran to him as he walked outside, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him close.

“I was so worried for you,” Thorin whispered, reaching one hand up to stroke Bilbo’s snow-covered hair. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“There was hardly any fighting,” Bilbo assured him, resting his forehead on Thorin’s shoulder. “I didn’t even get scratched. But I’ve missed you. Every day since you left I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Thorin said, and pulling back he kissed Bilbo, cupping his cold cheeks in his hands.

Bilbo smiled, laughing as they pulled apart. “You’ve become careless,” he commented, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“We’re in a garden in the middle of December,” Thorin said. “It’s snowing and absolutely freezing. Only fools would be out here.”

“I have always known you were a fool,” Bilbo said, reaching up to run his fingers through Thorin’s hair. “I wish I could stay here with you forever, but we’re leaving again in a couple of weeks. The Lord only knows when I will see you again after that.”

“Hopefully not too long,” Thorin said. “I will be returning home in a week, and soon after that I will be joining the army as a member of Clan MacDonald. We may very well run into each other out there.”

“That would be nice,” Bilbo said with a somewhat sad smile. “Though now I will spend all my time worrying about you.”

“And I’ll spend all mine worrying about you,” Thorin said, smirking. “Though I think I can handle myself in a fight.”

Bilbo furrowed his eyebrows. “You died in a battle, if you’ve forgotten,” he said.

“But I took Azog with me,” Thorin pointed out.

“Please try not to die this time,” Bilbo said, bringing his hand down to rest on Thorin’s cheek.

“I will not die,” Thorin assured him. “I promise you that.”

◊◊◊

**3 Weeks Later**

The rain was pouring down in buckets. From where he was crouching, obscured behind a small hill, Bilbo could see very little of what was happening in front of him. The strong wind was whipping the stinging rain into his face, and all he could hear above the roar of the storm were the sounds of hooves and gunshots. He had a dirk clutched tightly in his hand as he waited for the perfect moment to strike, listening as carefully as he could to what was happening atop the hill.

As he sat there, the cold rain soaking through his clothes, he remembered making his way through the chaos of battle a long time ago, though then the enemy was an army of Orcs. Now it was an army of British soldiers, and Bilbo found that he had a harder time justifying their deaths than those of the Orcs.

Still, he only hesitated for a moment when the sound of hooves grew close. Within seconds he was on his feet at the top of the hill, his dirk slicing through the neck of a horse. The animal veered sharply to the side, and Bilbo slashed at its rider, who fell to the ground with a thud. He didn’t stay to see if the man had died, instead hurrying away as quickly as he could.

All around him was chaos—Jacobites ran in every direction, most wearing the MacDonald tartan, though he saw a few Camerons and MacPhersons. Very few Redcoats remained; most had already fled, and those who were still within sight were being relentlessly pursued. He could hear gunshots going off nearby, though he could not see where. The torrential rain obscured everything, and it was impossible to see further than a few metres in front of him.

“Ben!”

Suddenly Drogo was at his side, his breaths coming heavy as rainwater dripped down his face. “Are you alright?” he asked, and Bilbo nodded. “Come on, then. Let’s get the rest of these Redcoat bastards.” Grinning, Drogo nudged Bilbo along and they ran forward, chasing after the quickly vanishing British soldiers. In the chaos, however, he quickly lost sight of his cousin, but he kept running forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone rushing towards him and turned to see Thorin, every inch of him soaking wet with mud up to his knees.

“Bilbo!’ he cried, slowing to a stop right beside him. “You’re alright? You haven’t been hurt?”

Bilbo shook his head, smiling despite the circumstances. Thorin had arrived only a few days ago with a contingent of MacDonald men, and while they had seen very little of each other since, just knowing that Thorin was nearby had made Bilbo feel more calm, though they were both now in the midst of danger.

“I’m perfectly alright,” Bilbo said, one hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “And you’re alright, as well?”

Thorin nodded, smirking. “Of course I am,” he answered. “I’m a seasoned warrior. It’ll take more than a few fleeing Redcoats on horses to hurt me.”

Bilbo laughed. Behind Thorin, another MacDonald appeared and hurried towards them. Bilbo quickly took his hand off of Thorin’s shoulder as he approached.

“Alasdair,” the man said, and as he drew closer Bilbo realized that he looked strikingly familiar. “There you are; come on. There are a few Redcoats up ahead, towards the northeast, and if we hurry we can get them before they run off.”

Thorin nodded. “Aye, I’m coming,” he said, before looking back to Bilbo. “Will you come, as well?”

Bilbo didn’t respond at first, too busy trying to figure out why that man looked so familiar. “Oh, ah, no, I can’t,” he replied, finally turning his attention back to Thorin. “I have to find Drogo, and I think he went a different way. But afterwards I’ll try to find you.”

“Alright,” Thorin said with a nod, and turned to leave with the man, who had already started walking away. As he was about to leave, however, Bilbo finally remembered who the man reminded him of, and reached out to stop Thorin.

“Wait, was that—”

“Dwalin, aye,” Thorin responded with a grin. “Just the same as always, though he looks quite different without all his tattoos. But we’ll talk about that later—go find your cousin.”

Bilbo nodded, watching as the two quickly disappeared into the rain before turning and running off in the direction Drogo had gone. There were now very few people around; he didn’t see anyone as he ran, climbing over the many hills that covered the landscape, and he could no longer hear any gunshots in the distance.

He had been running for around ten minutes when he suddenly heard the sound of hooves on the ground behind him. Bilbo turned, hoping to have time to duck behind the crest of a nearby hill, but saw instead a British soldier on horseback only a few metres away. The soldier had a pistol in his hand and he quickly raised it when he saw Bilbo, standing exposed with only a dagger.

Before Bilbo even had time to react the soldier fired and there was a loud bang. A sudden pain bloomed in the right side of Bilbo’s chest and within seconds he was on his knees. The soldier watched him for a moment before galloping off, and through the haze that was clouding his mind Bilbo could see someone running up the hill towards him. As the person approached Bilbo realized that is was Thorin, though his vision was starting to blur.

“John!” Thorin yelled, and for a moment Bilbo wondered who John was before he saw Dwalin climbing the hill after Thorin. “John, go get help! Quickly!”

As Dwalin ran off, Thorin fell to the ground beside Bilbo, taking him in his arms and pressing on his wound.

“You’re going to be alright,” he was saying, and Bilbo smiled, reaching up to touch his face. “Bilbo, do you hear me? You’re going to be alright.” Thorin grasped Bilbo’s hand in his own, and his fingers were stained red, leaving streaks of blood on his cheek.

“What... are you doing here?” Bilbo asked, every word a struggle.

“I’ve been chasing that Redcoat bastard for the past five minutes,” Thorin answered.

“Oh...” Bilbo said, taking in deep, laboured breaths. “I never knew... how much it hurts to get shot. I just... I just want it end.”

Thorin shook his head, tightening his grip on Bilbo’s hand. “You’re going to be okay,” he said. “Dwalin’s going to get help and you’re going to be alright.”

Bilbo smiled, blinking as the rain fell in his eyes. “This is all very... familiar,” he observed. “Except last time... I held you as you died.”

“Don’t say that,” Thorin said, holding back the tears that were welling in his eyes. “You’re not going to die. I promise you that—you’re not going to die.”

“Do you think we’ll see each other again?” Bilbo asked. “In some other place... and time?”

“You won’t die,” Thorin said, the tears now flowing freely. “Not here and not today.”

“I’m sorry, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, lowering his hand from where it was still pressed against Thorin’s cheek. “I’m so sorry... for leaving you. I know how it feels... to be left behind.” His breathing had become shallow, and his words were now slurring together. “I love you... more than anything.”

“No, no, don’t you dare,” Thorin sobbed, struggling to speak through his tears. “Don’t you dare die. Don’t leave me, Bilbo. Please...” He trailed off as Bilbo’s breathing slowly stopped and he stilled, his eyes staring blindly at the stormy sky above.

◊◊◊

Dwalin returned a few minutes later, with Víli and several other MacDonald men in tow. Thorin was still kneeling on the cold ground, Bilbo’s body cradled in his arms. Though the torrential rain had washed most of the blood from his hands, the front of his shirt was still stained with red and a bloody streak ran from his cheek down to his chest.

He looked up as they approached, and Víli ran towards him, his face paling as he grew closer.  He skidded to a stop in front of him, frantically looking between Thorin and Bilbo. “Alasdair? Alasdair, what’s happened?” he asked, putting a hand on each of Thorin’s shoulders.

“He... he was shot,” Thorin said, fumbling over his words. “I tried to save him,” he continued, swallowing back the tears that were threatening to spill over again. “But I couldn’t... I couldn’t do it, Ví—Rory... I’m sorry.”

Víli said nothing for a moment, simply falling to the ground beside Thorin. “We need... we need to get him back to camp,” he said, moving Thorin’s hands, which were still resting on Bilbo’s chest. “This storm’s getting worse. We have to hurry.”

Numb, Thorin nodded and stood. They had brought a stretcher to carry Bilbo back, and he watched as they lifted his lifeless body onto it, following after as they carried it away. Víli walked beside him, one hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder, and Dwalin walked further ahead, his expression stony. No one spoke as they made their way off the battlefield, and Thorin tried not to break down crying.

◊◊◊

The next morning the sky was clear, and Thorin awoke in a warm room buried under a pile of blankets. The clear weather revealed a battlefield littered with the bodies of British soldiers—over three hundred of their seven thousand men had been killed, and another three hundred had been captured. Just over fifty out of the eight thousand Jacobites had been killed, and their bodies had all been collected for burial.

Thorin tried not to show how much Bilbo’s death affected him. To the knowledge of everyone else they had simply been acquaintances—nothing more. Still, it was difficult to pretend to even be somewhat happy over their enormous success. All he felt was overwhelming guilt and sadness.

A few days later, the dead were buried. Afterwards, Douglas spoke about how everything felt empty without Bilbo. They had been like brothers since they were six-years-old, and now that he was gone—truly gone—nothing felt right. Thorin had felt like that at the death of his own brother when he was fifty-three, and he felt it again now, though in a slightly different way.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Thorin slipped outside and walked to the graveyard. Wooden crosses marked where the dead were buried, and he quickly found Bilbo’s. _Benjamin MacDonell_ was etched into the wood, along with the dates _September 12, 1722_ and _January 17, 1746_.

Kneeling on the cold, soggy ground, Thorin put one hand on the cross. “If I could take this death from you, I would,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I would give it to myself, for you do not deserve this. Death does not suit you.” He paused for a moment, giving a small, sad smile to the ground. “We’ll meet again. I don’t know when or where it will be, but I’ll make sure it happens. I... I love you, more than I ever realized I could. So farewell, Master Burglar, until we meet again.”

He stood, his hand lingering on the cross, before he turned and walked away. He didn’t look back as he left, instead turning his gaze up to the moon, which shone brightly in the cloudless sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters  
> Ben - Bilbo  
> Alasdair - Thorin  
> Douglas - Drogo  
> Margaret - Primula  
> Elspeth - Dís  
> Rory - Víli  
> Frankie - Fíli  
> Christopher - Kíli  
> Fergus - Largo  
> I'm sorry this chapter is so long, I really didn't mean for it to get over 10k words. The next one will definitely be shorter because this one had a lot of establishing stuff, and the next one will take a lot less time to write. A big part of the reason I'm writing this fic is to get myself into the habit of writing every day because right now it takes me like a month to write one chapter and I really want to change that. So I'm hoping the next chapter will be out before November and that's what I'll be aiming for, but it might not happen. Updates will probably be pretty irregular, especially for the first several chapters. There's probably going to be somewhere around 15-18 chapters, so hopefully by the end it'll take around two weeks for me to write one chapter.


	2. By Ancient Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present-Day Ireland, 104 BCE  
> 3rd Life  
>  _The farmer and the warrior ___

“Use more force! Your blows are too weak!”

Trenaccatus stood in the middle of a large field, his arms crossed over his chest. In front of him, his nephews lunged at each with swords and shields, yelling and trying their best to knock the other off their feet.

“You can do better than that, Caliacas,” Trenaccatus called, slowly circling the two as they sparred. His youngest nephew glanced at him, his split-second distraction giving his older brother the chance to kick his feet out from under him and press the tip of his sword against his throat.

Caliacas glared at his brother. “That is not fair,” he argued, and Trenaccatus smirked.

“Do not get so easily distracted,” he said, leaning over his nephew. “Now come, on your feet. Try again.”

Caliacas groaned, pushing his brother’s sword out of the way so he could sit up. “Can we not take a break?” he asked. “We have been sparring since it was dark, and the sun has now risen.”

“But it is not yet high in the sky,” Trenaccatus pointed out. “You will spar for a while longer. If you do not practice, you will not learn.”

“Come, Caliacas,” his brother, Vendubaras, said. “The quicker you are on your feet the sooner our rest will be.”

Caliacas scowled, but still stood, readjusting his sword in his hand. “Then let’s do what we must,” he said with a slight sigh.

Vendubaras grinned, waiting for his brother to prepare himself before charging with his sword held high. Caliacas easily blocked his blow with his shield, and the two continued swinging and attacking each other while their uncle watched, attentive of their every move.

He had been training them since they had come to live with him two years ago, when Vendubaras was sixteen and Caliacas was only thirteen. They had received some training from their father, but Trenaccatus was much more stern and strict than he had been—he had his nephews practice nearly every day for several hours, carefully watching them himself to ensure that they made no mistakes. While they often complained about it, the relentless training had drastically improved their skills, and they only improved more with each day.

After another hour of sparring, Trenaccatus finally allowed them to stop, and they returned to the village, only a short walk from the field where they often trained. It was a large village, with nearly one hundred inhabitants living in many small, round huts. The entire area was surrounded by a large palisade, and the smoke from several fires could be seen rising into the sky from a great distance. The gate was open that morning, as people were out in the fields harvesting the fall crop and preparing it for storage and were often moving from the village to crop fields.

The streets were full of people as Trenaccatus lead his nephews through the village to their home. Many people sat outside their huts, socializing as they weaved or carved, despite the autumn cold. Several of them cried out in greeting to Trenaccatus as he passed, and he responded happily. He had lived in this village for his entire life, and knew the names of each one of its inhabitants, just as everyone knew him.

They quickly reached their hut, situated in the middle of the village. It was one of the larger homes, as Trenaccatus’s family was quite wealthy. It was the house that he had grown up in, and when his father had died it had passed to him; he now lived in it with his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and five nieces and nephews. While his brother and sister-in-law had three children, two girls and a boy, Vendubaras and Caliacas were the sons of his younger sister, who lived in another village  

Trenaccatus’s sister-in-law, Bruigga, was at her loom when they entered the hut, resting their weapons by the door. Her youngest child, a girl named Auitoriga, was sitting with Trenaccatus’s mother, Ulagna, watching as she wove a basket. The little girl looked up when they arrived and smiled, jumping to her feet and running to greet her cousins.

“You’re back!” she cried, letting herself be scooped up into Caliacas’s arms.

“We are,” Caliacas said, rustling her hair already-messy hair. “Where are your brother and sister?”

“They are outside, playing,” Auitoriga explained. “I was too but I came back because I hurt my knee.”

“Oh no! How’d you do that?”

“I fell,” the little girl said. “So I came inside to help Mama work.”

Bruigga looked over at them, smiling. “You should go back outside now,” she told her daughter. “Caliacas and Vendubaras are probably tired from training.”

Auitoriga scowled, but obediently wiggled her way out of her cousin’s arms, scurrying past Trenaccatus and Vendubaras as she ran out of the door.

“How was your training?’ Bruigga asked, once her daughter was gone, and Caliacas shrugged, frowning.

“He’s just angry that I beat him,” Vendubaras said, gently shoving his brother as he walked over to where a basket of bread sat, grabbing a piece.

“You do not fight fairly,” Caliacas argued, and Vendubaras scoffed.

“He fights fairly enough,” Trenaccatus said. “Others will not be so kind.”

Caliacas’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, instead going over to where his brother stood and taking a piece of bread for himself. Trenaccatus watched him with a scowl—while they had been living in peace for quite a while, violent disputes with other settlements and even other villages were still frequent. Their peaceful lives could be viciously disrupted at any moment.

◊◊◊

Branogenas woke before the sun, his eyes slowly opening to the dark world around him. He was on the ground near a forest, with nothing but a cloak and the smouldering embers of a fire to keep him warm. It had been several days since he had slept sheltered from the elements, and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that followed him, no matter how far he ran., and so he kept going, without any idea as to where he would end up.

Stomping out the remains of his fire, he had a quick breakfast of stale bread and nuts and continued on his way, his hood pulled up over his head so that it hid his face, though the sun had still not yet risen. Autumn was quickly progressing, with each day becoming colder and colder, and Branogenas knew that he would have to find somewhere to live before winter set in, otherwise he would freeze to death in the middle of a forest. But for that day he continued his march, not even knowing in what direction he was walking.

He met few people as he travelled. The settlements that littered the area were few and far apart, and it was uncommon for someone to wander between them. Though he had seen several small villages, he had been careful to stay far away from them. Most people were not very welcoming towards strangers, and he would most likely be turned away.

So he slept outside, carefully rationing the small amount of food he had grabbed before he fled. Though it had been several days, he was still reeling from the shock of his escape and he spent much of his time thinking about the events that lead up to it.

Everything had started just over three weeks ago, when Branogenas woke up to find his wife dead. They had been married for nearly a year, and her death had come as a surprise—she had been healthy the night before, but had died suddenly sometime during the night. The entire village was saddened by her death, and she was given the proper funeral rites, with many people coming to visit her as she lay in their home in the days before her burial.  

Then, the day after she was buried, her brother began making claims that his sister’s death had not been natural and that someone had killed her. He named Branogenas as the perpetrator, and in a few days he had most of the village agreeing with him. A druid was summoned to decide whether he was innocent or guilty and what his punishment should be.

Branogenas’s brother-in-law insisted that he be killed, and while the druid agreed that Branogenas was guilty he felt that exile would be a sufficient punishment. So Branogenas had packed what could and had left as quickly as possible, and while days of travelling now rested between him and the village, he still did not feel safe.

Glancing over his shoulder, he peered into the shadowy forest and quickened his pace, tightly wrapping his cloak around himself.

◊◊◊

Trenaccatus stood with a sword in his hand, watching Vendubaras carefully and waiting for him to strike. Caliacas sat off to the side, with his younger cousin Lugaddu beside him. While Lugaddu was only six, he had begged to join his older cousins during their training sessions and Trenaccatus had allowed him to come along. Caliacas had given the young boy a small sword fashioned out of wood and he attempted to mimic the strikes and thrusts of his uncle and cousins.

Though he had tired after only an hour, he still sat with rapt attention as Vendubaras suddenly lunged forward, swinging at his uncle. Trenaccatus, however, easily blocked the attack and matched it with his own. Vendubaras just barely avoided the blow in time and nearly fell to the ground, though he managed to recover before Trenaccatus swung at him again.

They fought like this for several minutes, with Vendubaras struggling to maintain his footing and keep up, until he was finally knocked down, his uncle’s sword at his neck.

“You still have much to learn,” Trenaccatus said, pulling the sword away. “But you have improved greatly.”

Vendubaras sat up with a huff, rubbing his now bruised arm. Trenaccatus watched him for a moment, before motioning to where Caliacas sat. “Go spar with your brother,” he said, and Vendubaras grabbed his sword, standing and hurrying over to Caliacas.

Sheathing his own sword, Trenaccatus watched his nephews as Vendubaras goaded Caliacas to his feet and moved Lugaddu out of the way. The small boy protested a bit, but Caliacas handed him his wooden sword and sent him over to where Trenaccatus stood.

“Will you fight with me?” Lugaddu asked as he walked up to Trenaccatus, his toy sword held tightly in his hands.

Trenaccatus grinned. “You are not old enough yet,” he told the boy, kneeling down and tousling his hair. “But one day, I promise, I will fight you. And maybe you will even win.”

Lugaddu stared at him for a moment, awestruck. “But Vendubaras is really good at fighting, and he lost,” he said.

“Then you will have to become better than him,” Trenaccatus said, and Lugaddu smiled widely, sitting himself down in the grass beside his uncle.

They watched as Vendubaras and Caliacas sparred, Trenaccatus occasionally calling out, telling them not to hesitate and to strike quickly. After several minutes, however, Lugaddu looked up at him, a confused look on his face.

“Uncle,” he said, and when Trenaccatus didn’t say anything, too focused on what Caliacas and Vendubaras were doing, he stood, tugging on his uncle’s shirt. “Uncle,” he repeated, and Trenaccatus looked down at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“What is it, Lugaddu?” he asked.

“What is that person doing?” the boy asked, pointing towards the nearby hills.

Trenaccatus frowned, following his nephew’s finger to a small, dark figure walking near the base of the hills. They were too far away to see properly, so it was impossible to know if it was someone from the village or not. However, it was uncommon for someone to leave the settlement alone, and they did not appear as if they had been hunting or gathering food, as they had no bow or even baskets.

“Caliacas, Vendubaras,” he said, turning back to his nephews. “That is enough.” The two boys stopped, staring at their uncle in confusion. “Remain here with Lugaddu.”

Caliacas frowned. “Why?”

“Simply do as I say,” Trenaccatus said, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as he looked back towards the figure.  

“What’s wrong?” Lugaddu asked, looking from his cousins to his uncle. “Is that person dangerous?”

Vendubaras blinked, confused. “What person?” he asked, looking to his uncle.

“They are over by the hills,” Trenaccatus explained. “I am going to go see who they are, and what business they have here.”

“Are they not from our village?” Vendubaras asked.

“It is hard to tell,” Trenaccatus admitted. “But it does not appear so, as they are alone and have no obvious weapons for hunting. It is more likely that they are a traveller.”

Caliacas furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you believe that they are dangerous?”

“I could not say,” Trenaccatus said. “Which is why I am going to speak with them.”

“I do not like that you are going alone,” Vendubaras told him.

“They are most likely harmless,” Trenaccatus assured his oldest nephew. “Just a simple traveller.”

“It is odd for someone to travel alone,” Caliacas observed, a slight frown on his face.

Trenaccatus nodded in agreement. “That is why I have some suspicions,” he said. “But I will not be long.”

Though they looked as if they wanted to argue further, neither Caliacas nor Vendubaras said anything more; they simply watched as Trenaccatus left them standing in the middle of the field and began making his way over to where the person wandered, a shadowy black figure against the tall, bright green hills.

◊◊◊

It was nearing dusk when Branogenas spotted a small group of people standing in a nearby field. Though the setting sun had basked everything in gold and turned the people into dark shadows, he could see that some of them were sparring with each other. He had never been much of a warrior, but he had received enough training to recognize that they were novices, and therefore relatively young.

Fortunately, they were rather far away and seemed to be preoccupied with their training. As such, Branogenas hoped to be able to avoid catching their attention and suspicion, so that he would be able to pass by peacefully. But, because of their presence, he knew that a village would be nearby, and scanned the horizon for any signs of smoke from fires, for if he knew where it was, he could easily avoid it and any other people that might be lingering nearby.

However, it didn’t seem as if he would be able to travel through the area unnoticed—when he looked back to the group, they had stopped their training and appeared to be looking in his direction. Tugging his hood further over his face, Branogenas quickened his pace, hoping to be out of their sight before they decided to confront him. People were typically very suspicious of those who travelled alone, as they were considered to be dangerous—to most, only criminals travelled alone.

Glancing back to the group, he saw that one of them had broken away and was heading in his direction. Quietly, he swore under his breath and gradually began increasing his speed. Though he wanted to break out into a sprint and run away as quickly as he could, he knew that that would only increase the person’s suspicions of him, and so he continued to walk, often casting a glance over his shoulder to see how close they were.

Slowly, they grew closer and closer until they were only a few metres away. Looking back, Branogenas saw that it was a man—he had a rather imposing stature, and seemed to be quite a bit taller than him. Though he only caught a glimpse of him, Branogenas was able to see that he had a sword strapped to his hip, and that further increased his anxiety about the situation. The man appeared to be a rather skilled warrior, and while Branogenas had of course received weapons training, he was simply a farmer. He didn’t have the skill that a seasoned warrior would have.

Pulling his cloak around himself, Branogenas tried to figure out what to do. If he ran, he would be caught quickly and most likely killed. If he kept walking, the man would eventually catch up to him and he would once again end up in a very unsatisfactory situation. No matter what he did, it was likely that he would end up dead.

“Stop!”

Branogenas stumbled, surprised at the man’s sudden cry. Catching himself, he continued on for a few more steps before slowing, turning to face the man. He had stopped walking, and now stood only a few feet away, one hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. From what Branogenas could see, it was a very good sword, skillfully crafted and lovingly cared for. It was the type of sword he often saw in the hands of nobles, and that combined with the quality of his clothes meant that this man was most likely very wealthy.

Though it was quite cold that evening, he wore only a pair of trousers and a shirt with short sleeves. His clothes were very clean, and didn’t appear to have many holes or stains, though they were worn in some places. His hair was quite long, but well-kept, pulled back from his face, which was covered in a thick, dark beard.

“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice full of suspicion.

For a moment, Branogenas said nothing. He still had his hood pulled far over his face, covering his eyes, so he could not see most of the man’s face. Silently, he wondered what to say—whether he should tell the truth, or lie.

“What are you doing here?” the man continued, quickly becoming aggravated. “Speak quickly.”

“I am simply a traveller,” Branogenas told him, and stood straighter, pulling the hood back from his head and staring the man straight in the face.

They both stood silent for a moment, expressions of absolute shock on their faces.

“Bilbo,” the man— _Thorin,_ Bilbo thought, _Thorin_ —said, stumbling forward.

Bilbo stared at him, struggling to believe what he was seeing. He felt almost as if he was waking up from a dream, with all these memories of lives that were somehow his.

“I...” he mumbled, failing to find something meaningful to say. “I died... I truly died.”

“You did,” Thorin said, taking Bilbo’s hands in his own. “But I told you we would see each other again. I always knew we would.”

Bilbo blinked at him, the warmth of his hands in Thorin’s so strikingly familiar it made his heart stutter. “But... this means that you died as well,” he said, and Thorin frowned, nodding.

“I did,” he said. “Only a few months after you.”

“How?” Bilbo asked, his forehead creasing in worry. “What happened?”

“That is a story for another time and place,” Thorin said, rather quickly. “First, tell me what you are doing here, travelling alone with no weapons or protection.”

Bilbo scowled. He debated over lying for a moment, unsure of how Thorin would react.

“It is a very long story,” he explained,             quickly deciding on the truth. “I will need to tell you more details later, but... I have been exiled from my village.”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening in surprise. “What?” he asked, his voice suddenly growing quiet, as if there was someone nearby to hear their conversation. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” Bilbo replied. “But everyone was lead to believe that I did.”

Thorin was silent for a moment, watching Bilbo and thinking. After a moment, he asked, “What do they think you did?”

It took Bilbo several seconds to answer. “I... had a wife,” he said, his eyes falling closed, as if he was physically in pain. “Her name was Magliga. We were married this past year, but a fortnight ago... I woke up and she was dead. Her brother told everyone that I had killed her, and so I was exiled.”

“Why... Why did he believe you killed her?” Thorin asked, still obviously shocked.

“I am not sure,” Bilbo admitted. His expression was pained, and when he looked at Thorin there was great sorrow in his eyes.

“Have you been travelling since your exile?” Thorin questioned, and Bilbo nodded.

“It has been close to a week.”

Thorin watched him for a moment, lifting Bilbo’s hands to his lips. They were cold and dirty, covered in cuts that had scabbed over, hands that had seen years of hard work and were worn with calluses and scars. But they were undoubtedly still Bilbo’s hands, and Thorin held them tightly as he leaned in and kissed Bilbo—it was just a quick kiss, but Thorin still felt his heart jump in his chest as their lips brushed.

“You will come and stay with me, then,” he decided, his face only centimetres from Bilbo’s. “We have room enough for you.”

“What of your companions?” Bilbo asked, his voice merely a whisper. “What will they say of you deciding to harbour an unknown traveller?”

Thorin smiled. “They are my nephews,” he clarified. “We will tell them, and the rest of my family, that you are the kin of a friend.”

Bilbo stared at him. “You do not believe me to be a murderer?” he asked. “You would house an exile?”

“I know you,” Thorin said, cupping Bilbo’s face. “What reason would you have to kill someone?”

Bilbo said nothing for a moment, before whispering, “Thank you. You are the only one who has believed me.”

“I have every reason to believe you,” Thorin said, and kissed him again.

◊◊◊

Thorin’s nephews stood as he approached, regarding the stranger who followed behind him with apprehension.

“Who is this?” Fíli asked, stepping in front of his brother and cousin and glaring at Bilbo. “Do you know him?”

“There is no need to be so harsh, Vendubaras,” Thorin said, placing his hands on his oldest nephew’s shoulders. “This man is the kin of a friend who lives in a nearby village. He is travelling to visit him, and I have offered him shelter for tonight.”

Fíli furrowed his eyebrows. “Which friend?” he asked.

“His name is Dalagnas,” Thorin answered. “You do not know him.”

“What is your name?” Kíli asked, motioning to Bilbo.

“I am Branogenas,” he answered, trying his best to keep a straight face. It was odd to see Fíli and Kíli again, looking as they had in Middle-earth. Fíli appeared to be around eighteen, and while he no longer had a mustache or beard his golden hair was once again long, pulled back from his face and braided. Kíli seemed to be only a few years younger, and both had the mischievous air about them that Bilbo had missed. He had grown close to the brothers over the course of their quest, and their deaths had been hard.

“These are my nephews,” Thorin said, looking at Bilbo and smiling. “Vendubaras and Caliacas are the elder two, my sister’s sons, and Lugaddu is my brother’s son.”

“Hello,” Lugaddu greeted him, grinning widely. “Are you good at fighting?”

Bilbo blinked in surprise before chuckling, leaning down slightly to better speak to the boy. “I am afraid not, no,” he answered. “I am a farmer, and never learned to fight well.”

Lugaddu frowned. “Oh,” he said, disappointed. “My uncle is a very good warrior. He is the best in our village.”

“I do not doubt that,” Bilbo agreed, straightening. “I have heard many tales of your uncle from my cousin.”

“I will be a warrior like him one day,” Lugaddu announced proudly. “My cousins are very good at fighting as well.”

Bilbo nodded, glancing to Fíli and Kíli. Fíli was watching him suspiciously, his arms crossed over his chest, while Kíli looked as if he didn’t know what to think, his eyes darting from his brother to his uncle.

“Are they?” he asked, and Lugaddu nodded.

“Come now, my nephew,” Thorin said, stepping in and scooping Lugaddu up into his arms. “Do not pester him so much.”

Bilbo smiled. “It does not bother me,” he said.

“Grandmother will not be happy that you brought a visitor home without her knowing,” Fíli pointed out.

“That is none of your concern,” Thorin told his nephew. “There is no need to hold such suspicions, Vendubaras. Not everyone is looking to harm you.”

“But many people are,” Fíli argued.

“That is why you must be cautious, not hostile,” Thorin replied. “I have known Dalagnas for many years, and I trust his kin as much as I trust him. You must do the same.”

Fíli frowned, but said nothing and started walking away, back towards the village. Kíli hurried after him, and they were followed by Thorin, Bilbo, and Lugaddu, the small boy now walking beside his uncle. The village was not too far away, and as they walked Bilbo answered Lugaddu’s many questions. The child wanted to know everything he could about this mysterious stranger, and Bilbo happily answered, though he had to lie many times.

Thorin watched him as he talked, a small smile on his face. It was indescribably wonderful to see him again, and though the situation was much more complicated than it had been before, Thorin couldn’t help but feel happy. After Bilbo had died, Thorin hadn’t been sure if they would see each other again. He hadn’t known if they would once more find themselves in some other place and time after their deaths, or if they would go to heaven, or the halls of his ancestors, or someplace else entirely. Though he still did not understand why, Thorin was glad that they had ended up together once again.

◊◊◊

The gate to the village was still open when they arrive, though no one now remains in the fields. Only a few people were outside as they walked through the streets, and while many of them stared at Bilbo no one said anything—they simply watched as they passed by.

They reached the hut quickly, and Fíli pulled aside the cloth covering the doorway, holding it as everyone else walked through. Inside, Frerin was hacking up large chunks of deer meat, some of which was put in a pot to be boiled while the other part was salted by Bruigga to be preserved.

They both looked up when the group entered, and his mother stood from where she had been sitting at her loom, blinking in surprise at Bilbo’s presence. It was not often that strangers came to the village, and they were all immediately suspicious.

“Who is this?” Ulagna asked, her hands on her hips.

“This is Branogenas,” Thorin explained. “He is the kin of a friend that we found wandering near the field. He is travelling to a nearby village.”

Frerin furrowed his eyebrows, looking from Bilbo to Thorin. “Which friend is this?”

“You do not know him,” Thorin answered. “His name is Dalagnas—I met him many years ago during a conflict with another settlement.”

“You have never mentioned him before,” Frerin observed, and Thorin frowned.

“Must I name all of my acquaintances?” he asked, and his younger brother glowered at him.  

“It is simply odd that I have never heard you speak of this Dalagnas,” Frerin argued.

“I know many people that you do not, Ircittis.”

“There is no need to hold such suspicions,” Bruigga told her husband. “Trenaccatus says that he knows this man’s kin, and therefore we honour him as our guest.” Giving her husband a scolding look, she turned to Bilbo and smiled, asking, “Will you be staying the night here with us?”

Bilbo, not entirely sure of what to say, turned to Thorin, who nodded. “He will,” he answered.

Bruigga’s smile widened. “We have plenty of food and space for you,” she said. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, bowing his head and giving her a gracious smile.

Bruigga nodded in return and sat back down to continue her work, while Thorin introduced Bilbo to the rest of his family.

◊◊◊

Later that evening, after dinner, Bilbo and Thorin sat behind the hut, watching as the sky slowly darkened. The children were playing nearby, and they could hear their cheerful shouts and laughs as they ran around.

Heaving a sigh, Bilbo rested his head against the hut’s wattle-and-daub wall, staring up at the sky. It was a brightly-coloured mix of reds and oranges, the clouds dyed in warm hues cast by the setting sun. Letting his eyes fall shut, he breathed in the crisp evening air.

“Will you tell me the story of how you died now?” he asked, his eyes remaining shut.

Thorin said nothing for a moment. “...It was in April,” he finally replied, looking down at his hands, calloused and caked with dirt. “The sixteenth, I believe. We did not do very well, after... after you died. We were forced to retreat back to Scotland, and there was a battle near Inverness.” He paused, taking in a long, deep breath. “So many died—we were slaughtered. I was not killed until the end, as we were making to flee. The Redcoats charged us, and one stabbed me with a bayonet. I was dead in seconds.”

Bilbo was silent for a long while, unmoving. “What about everyone else?” he asked, after several minutes had passed, finally opening his eyes and looking at Thorin. “Drogo and... and Víli. Did they survive?”

“I do not know,” Thorin answered. “They were alive when I died, but I am not sure if they escaped.”

Bilbo sighed, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his chin on it. “Drogo is named Ulcagnas here,” he said. “We are not very close—he is much younger than I am.”

“Are many of the people of your village your kin?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded.

“Many are, yes,” he said, and to Thorin’s surprise he gave a short, curt laugh. “You know, most did not believe my brother-in-law’s story that I had killed Magliga... not at first. But the wife of my cousin believed what he said from the very beginning, and she convinced everyone else to believe him as well. Ercagriga, her name is.” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.”

Thorin furrowed his brows, frowning. “What is so funny?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Lobelia has never liked me,” Bilbo explained. “No matter the circumstances, it would appear. It is very unsurprising that she was the one who turned my kin against me.”

“How could they believe that you killed your own wife?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo shrugged.

“You know how everyone here thinks,” he said. “No one knew what had killed Magliga, and when my brother-in-law suggested murder it seemed, to them, like the most logical explanation. There were, of course, many who rejected the idea, but Lobelia and my brother-in-law managed to convince them otherwise. When the druid was called there were only a few who still believed me, but they seemed to decide otherwise after hearing the druid’s ruling.” He paused, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“Why would your brother-in-law accuse you of such a crime?” Thorin questioned.

“I do not think he liked me,” Bilbo explained. “I feel as though he despised me, actually, though I do not know why. When the druid exiled me, he argued and said that I should be put to death—that I did not deserve to live anymore.”

Thorin frowned. “That is... extreme.”

Bilbo scoffed, nodding in agreement. “But I think, in the end, he had convinced himself that I _did_ kill Magliga, if he did not believe it right from the beginning,” he said. “He absolutely adored her. She was his younger sister, and he would have done anything for her. I do not think he thought I was good enough, and when she died he wanted someone to blame—someone to get angry at.”

“And he chose you,” Thorin concluded, and Bilbo nodded once more.

“Yes, I think so.”

There was a moment of silence, when neither of them said anything, and Thorin simply watched Bilbo. The sun had almost completely sunk below the horizon, casting a dark shadow over the world, and Thorin could just barely make out Bilbo’s features in the twilight. He looked sad, and Thorin moved closer, brushing the strands of hair from Bilbo’s face.

“Did you love her?” he asked, his voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible.

Bilbo waited a moment before replying. “Yes,” he murmured, turning to look at Thorin. There were tears welling in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. “Not in the way I love you—I don’t think I ever could have loved her like that. But in a way, yes. I loved her very much.” He paused, taking in a deep breath of air before continuing, “I have no idea what to do now. I... I have no home, I have nowhere to go.”

“Do not say that,” Thorin said, taking Bilbo’s face in his hands. “You have me. You have _my_ home. We will figure something out, I promise you.”

Bilbo nodded, smiling. “I feel as though we will never have anything easy,” he said, and Thorin laughed. It was a laugh that Bilbo heard so rarely, and his smile deepened at the sound of it.

“I love you,” he whispered, taking Thorin’s hands in his own and holding them tightly. “I never want to leave you again.”

“You will not,” Thorin assured him, and leaned in to kiss him.

◊◊◊

Bilbo awoke with a startle early the next morning. The world was still dark, with the first beginnings of light just starting to creep their way into the hut. All around him, everyone else was still sleeping, their even breathing and the wind outside the only sounds penetrating the early morning air.

The sun would not rise for a while longer, but Bilbo knew that he would not be able to fall back asleep. He had been restless during the night, and sleep had evaded him for several hours. Though he was exhausted, and wished for nothing more than to sleep and never wake up, he knew that to try would be useless.

So, instead, he threw back the furs covering him and slipped on his shoes, grabbing his cloak and crossing the floor to the doorway. Outside, the air was cold and he shivered as he wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, wishing for a moment that he had thought to grab the fur from his bed.

Sighing, Bilbo leaned back against the hut, craning his neck to look up at the stars. They were slowly growing fainter as the sky turned from black to grey, and he watched as they dimmed, his breath curling up to form clouds above him. He suddenly felt the urge to hold a pipe in his hands, though he hadn’t smoked since Middle-earth. He didn’t even know what year it was or even where he was, but he was very sure that neither tobacco nor pipe-weed had been discovered yet—it would probably be some time before he would be able to smoke again.  

Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander. He couldn’t tell how long he stood like that, breathing in the crisp morning air, but when he reopened his eyes the sky was noticeably brighter. People were beginning to start their days—fires that had died during the night were being relit, their smoke curling from the tops of the huts, though only a few people were out in the streets, fetching water or food.

Bilbo stood still for a moment, watching as the world begun to awake, before turning to return back inside. He was shivering from the cold, and longed to crawl back under a pile of warm furs, at least for a short while before Thorin and his family awoke.

As he was about to pull back the cloth covering the doorway, however, someone suddenly grabbed him from behind, one hand going over his mouth and the other across his chest, dragging him away from the door.

◊◊◊

When Thorin woke up, Bilbo was gone.

The furs under which he had slept were thrown back, piled near the foot of his bed. His shoes and cloak were gone, but his bag still sat on the other side of the room. Sitting up, he brushed the hair away from his face and looked around. Frerin and Bruigga were already up, and had restarted the fire. Kíli sat in front of it, with Auitoriga in his lap, both of them half asleep and chewing lazily on pieces of bread.

“Where is Branogenas?” Thorin asked, throwing aside his furs and standing up, slipping his feet into his shoes.

Frerin looked up at him, and shrugged. “I do not know,” he answered. “I have not yet seen him.”

“Is he not outside?” Thorin asked, and Kíli shook his head, yawning.

“He was not there when I went out,” he said.

Thorin frowned, and hurried over to the doorway, grabbing his cloak from where it sat nearby. Outside, Bilbo was nowhere to be seen. Several people milled about, but they paid him no attention. Running around to the other side of the hut, Thorin spun around in circles, looking for any possible spot Bilbo could be.

It was not likely that he had left before they had awoken—his bag was still inside, with all the rest of his belongings and supplies. He would not have wandered off, either, as he did not know the village or the surrounding area. He knew it would have been dangerous for him to go too far from the hut.

Frerin appeared in front of him, his forehead creased in worry. “Where has he gone?” he asked, and Thorin said nothing for a moment, instead scanning the area for any signs of Bilbo.

There was nothing—absolutely nothing. Turning to Frerin, he frowned, his eyebrows furrowing together. “I have no idea,” he admitted.

◊◊◊

The pain in his chest was absolutely excruciating—it was so painful that, for a moment, Bilbo thought that he was back in Scotland, with a bullet in his lungs and rain pouring down on him.

But the sky was clear. The sun was shining against a cloudless sky, and not a drop of rain was falling. Then Bilbo remembered—he had been stabbed, by his brother-in-law.

He was dying.

He was dying for the third time, and it was so incredibly painful. The first time it had been a slow, but peaceful, death—there had been little pain, and he had not even known it was about to happen. The second time had been horrible; a quick death, filled with the worst pain he had ever felt. But Thorin had been there, and that had alleviated some of the suffering—it had made it more bearable.

But this time, Thorin was not there. There was no comfort for him as he lay on the cold ground, struggling to breathe through punctured lungs. There was only the unhappy knowledge that he was about to die, and the menacing form of his brother-in-law looming over him.

“I didn’t kill her,” Bilbo said, the words coming out as a choked sob.

His brother-in-law said nothing for a moment, scowling. He had been the one to suddenly grab Bilbo from behind, and he had dragged him from the village. Outside the palisade, a small group of men had been waiting. They had tied Bilbo’s hands together with a length of rough cut cloth and had lead him far from the settlement, daggers and swords clutched in their fists.

The rest of the men had disappeared now—Bilbo didn’t know where they had gone, but he didn’t care very much. His brother-in-law frowned.

“Do not lie to me,” he growled. “I know you are lying. I know you killed her.”

Bilbo shook his head and coughed, blood spluttering from his lips. He had known that his brother-in-law was dissatisfied with the druid’s ruling, and had wanted him killed, but he had not thought he would take matters into his own hands. His brother-in-law had chased him incessantly since he departed from the village, bent on finding him and exacting his own punishment.

“Why would I kill her?” Bilbo asked, struggling to force the words from his mouth. He could barely breathe, and each second he could feel himself slipping closer and closer to death.

His brother-in-law’s face screwed up into an expression of intense anger, and he adjusted his grip on the dagger in his hand, slick with blood. “Why would you not?” he questioned, and leaned down.

He hovered above Bilbo for a moment, staring into his dying eyes, before he plunged the dagger deep into his chest. Bilbo’s mouth flew open, as if he was about to gasp or scream, but the only sound that came out was a small choke. His brother-in-law stared at him, his expression of anger slowly melting away into emotionless.

Bilbo stared back, until he could stare no longer and the world faded away.

◊◊◊

They did not find him for two days.

His body was lying, discarded, near a creek. It was obvious that he had been dead for some time, and while Thorin had not expected to find Bilbo alive, the confirmation that he was dead had still hurt—there had always been a chance, however slim it might have been.

Kíli was with him when they found Bilbo. They had spent the last two days searching the village and the surrounding area for any signs of him, and it was beginning to look more and more likely that they would never find him when Kíli found a knife, discarded on the ground and covered in blood. A few minutes later, they found the body.

Kíli stood, watching, as Thorin crumpled to the ground beside Bilbo. He was covered in stab wounds, his chest caked in dried blood—whoever had owned the dagger Kíli had found was obviously the one that had killed Bilbo.

Thorin took in a deep breath, and turned to face his nephew. “Go tell the others we found him,” he said, and Kíli nodded, hurrying off without a word, his face sickly pale.

After he had gone, Thorin took Bilbo’s cold hand in his, holding it tightly. “I am sorry,” he apologized, trying to hold back tears. He didn’t know what exactly he was apologizing for, but he felt as if it was his fault that Bilbo was once again dead. “I am so sorry.”

Frerin and Fíli arrived soon after that, and helped Thorin carry Bilbo back to the village. There, his body was washed and wrapped in a death shirt, and a druid was summoned. He decided that the murderer had run off, and it would now be impossible to catch them.

“I do not know what reason this person had for murdering Branogenas,” he said. “But it is no matter. They are long gone, and cannot now be apprehended and punished. Instead, what we must now do is ensure that Branogenas receives the proper burial rites. Though it has been two days since his death, he can yet be guided to the Otherworld and onto his next incarnation.” He turned to Thorin. “You said he was travelling to visit his kin in a nearby village?”

Thorin nodded, his lips pressed tightly together and his hands clenched in his lap. He did not like lying, least of all to a druid—they were an order he had grown up being taught to respect and obey, and lying to one felt like a crime. But there was no way he could explain the truth.

“How far is this village?” the druid asked, studying Thorin, as if he could he was holding something back.

“One day’s walk,” Thorin answered, avoiding looking the man directly in the eyes.

“You will take him there,” the druid said. “And you will deliver him to his family. They will ensure the proper rites are performed, I am sure.”

Thorin nodded once more. “Of course.”

The druid sat, watching him for a moment, before standing. “You must leave as soon as you are able,” he told Thorin. “For Branogenas’s sake, and the sake of his kin.”

“I will leave tomorrow,” Thorin assured him, and the druid nodded, satisfied.

“When you arrive in the village, make sure a druid there is made aware of the situation,” he said. “In that way, the proper measures can be taken.”

“Yes, thank you,” Thorin said, and the druid bade them goodbye, turning and leaving without another word. He lingered by the doorway, however, and looked back to Thorin as if he wanted to say something to him. He didn’t.

◊◊◊

Thorin left early the next morning, before anyone else had awoken. He wished to leave without their notice, as both Fíli and Frerin had insisted on coming, though Thorin had refused. There was no village for him to travel to, and no kin to deliver Bilbo’s body to. He needed to leave alone, so he could bury Bilbo himself.

Therefore he brought many things with him, loaded onto the small cart alongside Bilbo’s body—candles, wine, a pouch of coins, a small amount of food, and even clothing. Though it would only be him, he would try and give Bilbo the best funeral he could, according to the customs he had been taught since he was a child.

Thankfully, as he prepared to leave, no one woke up and he was able to slip away quietly. The village was silent as he led the horse-drawn cart through the streets to the gate and outside the palisade, and no one bothered him. He walked for several hours alongside the cart, until the sun was high in the sky and it was past noon. He stopped then, near a tall waterfall that cascaded down the side of a hill. Several trees stood at the bottom, their leaves bright hues of gold and orange.

He took Bilbo’s body from the cart, laying him on the ground and surrounding it with the lit candles. As they burned, he gathered large branches and sticks, arranging them into a pyre; by the time he had enough, the candles had nearly gone out, burned to nearly nothing, and the sun was beginning to sink in the sky.

“The world appears to be against us, Bilbo Baggins,” he said, sitting down beside the body. “We shall never have our peace, shall we?” He smiled, though it was small and tears were beginning to well in his eyes. “But there shall be another chance. We will meet again in our next life, and I will make sure that no harm comes to you.” He paused and looked up at the sky, watching as it turned from blue to orange. “Do you think that here, we know the truth? About what happens after we die?” He looked back to Bilbo, almost as if he expected him to answer.

After a moment, Thorin continued, “In Middle-earth, I believed that, after I died, I would go to the Halls of Mahal, where I would be reunited with all who I had lost. In Scotland, I believed I would go to heaven and I would spend the rest of eternity in bliss. But here, I believed that when we died, we would go to the Otherworld, where we wait until it is time for us to be reincarnated. That is the belief that seems to hold the most truth—I have not yet been to the Halls of Mahal, and I have not seen heaven, but I have lived more than one life.”

He stood, blowing out the few candles that still remained lit and putting them back onto the cart. He then gathered up Bilbo’s body and set it atop the pyre, gathering a few more leaved branches and covering it with them.

“You must wait for me in the Otherworld,” he told Bilbo as he prepared a torch. “When I arrive we will go to our next lives together, and we will never be apart until we are ready to die. This I promise you.”

When the torch was lit, Thorin stood by the pyre for a moment. It was odd, performing a funeral in the middle of nowhere with no one else around—no family, no druid, no friends. Only Thorin and a meagre offering of grave goods.

“I am sorry I have not been able to do better by you,” Thorin apologized. “I would try and counsel you on how to reach the Otherworld, but I feel as if you already know. You are most likely there now, waiting for your next incarnation.”

Bending, he placed the torch atop the pyre and watched as it caught fire, the flames slowly spreading until they had engulfed the entire structure.

“Be sure not to wait for too long,” Thorin said, watching as the fire burned, its smoke rising high into the darkening sky. He did not move until night had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Trenaccatus - Thorin  
> Branogenas - Bilbo  
> Caliacas - Kíli  
> Venubaras - Fíli  
> Ulagna - Thorin's Mother  
> Ircittis - Frerin  
> Ulcagnas - Drogo


	3. Den Portrætmaler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denmark, 1829  
> 4th Life  
>  _The portraitist and the nobleman's son_

It was snowing, the big, clumpy flakes slowly drifting down and covering the ground in white.

Christian Ræder watched the snowfall from where he was sitting in his family’s main parlour, a book open in his lap that had long been abandoned. It was the first snowfall of the year, though it would most likely be gone in two or three days—rain would come soon enough, melting it all.

He sighed, resting his cheek on his hand. Across the room, his sister sat at a desk, writing out a letter, most likely to her fiancé. They were to be married in the spring, and his sister spent most of her time planning the wedding or writing her fiancé, who was currently away in Germany.

“Are you writing a letter to Frederik, Lillian?” he asked, looking over at his sister.

She nodded. “I am,” she answered. “But hopefully it shall be the last for a while, as he will soon be returning home in December.”

“Will he be staying with us?” Christian asked as he flipped idly through the pages of his book, not reading anything.

“For a while at least, I believe,” Lillian said. “Though he will most likely be with his own family, as well.”

“Ah,” Christian said, nodding in understanding. “They live up near Aalborg, do they not?”

“They do,” Lillian replied. “It’s a very lovely home, with a large, beautiful garden. You shall have to visit one day, when I am living there.”

“Oh, I will definitely have to,” Christian agreed. “If only to get away from Mor and Far.”

Lillian grinned, glancing over at him. “You make your own life difficult,” she said. “You and Oskar both. It is no wonder Mor and Far are always angry at you, with the tricks you both pull.”

“I am not nearly as bad as Oskar,” Christian argued, though he smirked. Oskar was the youngest of the three of them, though he and Christian were close in age, being only one year apart. They had been troublemakers since they were children, causing havoc for their nannies, parents, and even Lillian, who had been four at the time of Oskar’s birth.

“You are both equally bad,” Lillian insisted. “Honestly, it is a wonder that this house is still standing.”

“We have gotten better as we’ve grown, however,” Christian said. “You must admit that.”

“I admit nothing,” Lillian said, lifting her letter and blowing on it gently to dry the ink. Once she was satisfied, she carefully folded it and stood. “Now, I must make sure this gets in the post today, so I’m afraid I cannot continue this wonderful conversation. I will see you later, at dinner, if I do not see you beforehand.”

Christian nodded, and she disappeared out the door and down the hall. A few seconds later, his mother appeared in the doorway, looking frazzled and exasperated.

“Have you seen either of your siblings?” she asked. “I have things to discuss with both of them, but I have not been able to find either.”

“Lillian just left to post a letter,” Christian explained, closing his book and setting it down on the table beside him. “If you hurry you can catch her down the hall.”

His mother nodded. “And Oskar?” she asked, gathering up her skirts and looking down the hallway in the direction Lillian had gone.

Christian shrugged. “I have not seen him all afternoon,” he said, and his mother sighed.

“All right,” she said. “Thank you, _min kære_. I shall see you this evening.” With that, she was gone, the thud of her footsteps audible as she hurried down the corridor. Christian left soon after that, as well, going in search of his brother.

Unfortunately, there was a multitude of places that he could be. Christian’s father was a rather wealthy member of the Danish nobility and their home was not small, by any means. There were dozens of rooms Oskar could be in, and he might not even been in the building—he could have gone to the village for the afternoon and neglected to tell anyone, as was his usual habit.

It was, however, worth it to try. Christian had little else of greater importance to do, and knowing Oskar it would be near impossible for anyone else to find him. His best chance was most likely Oskar’s bedroom, up on the third floor and across the hallway from Christian’s own room. And so he made his way towards the staircase, checking each room as he went along and asking the few servants he came across if they had seen his brother—they all said no.

The third floor hallway was all but deserted when Christian arrived. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and few people were up there that time of day, as that was where the majority of the bedrooms were located. By one o’clock, most rooms had been vacated and cleaned, so there was little reason for anyone to be in that part of the house.

Oskar, however, was probably on the third floor the most of anyone in the house, usually because he was hiding from their parents. Christian and Oskar had realized together what a good hiding place the third floor bedrooms had been when they were seven and six and trying to escape their governess. They had run from her while in the library downstairs and, while trying to think of a good place to hide, Christian had suggested one of the spare bedrooms. They had hurried up two flights of stairs and into one of the more secluded bedrooms, crawling under its tall four-poster bed. No one had actually ended up finding them, and they had come out of hiding after nearly three hours simply because they were hungry. They never told anyone where they had been, and had continued to use the various bedrooms on the third floor as hiding spots when they were in trouble until they discovered the attic some four or five years later.

While Christian had, for the most part, outgrown their hiding, Oskar was still known to do it on occasion. Now, however, he tended to stay away from the spare bedrooms, mostly hiding in his own room or, more commonly, the attic.

“Oskar!” Christian called out, opening the door to his brother’s room and stepping inside. “Oskar, are you here?”

He waited for a moment—there was no response. Sighing, Christian bent down to check under the bed, but he wasn’t there; the closet was empty as well, which meant Oskar was, in all likelihood, either down at the village or in the attic.

Despite the large size of their house, the attic was remarkably small. Christian didn’t even know exactly why they had one, as it was used for very few things—he hadn’t even know it existed until he was around eleven, when he and Oskar had discovered its steep, narrow stairway, hidden in a back corner of the servants’ corridor on the very top floor.

They were not, technically, barred from going to the servants’ corridor, but it was simply accepted as a thing that was not done. Their father had great respect for their servants, and thus he preferred that his sons did not go about invading their privacy. Unfortunately, their father’s disapproval had never stopped them before, particularly when they were younger. Of course they never entered any of the rooms—they had simply been curious as to what the servants’ corridor looked like. The door to the attic stairway had looked different than the others, being narrower and lacking any names to determine whose room it led to. From that, they decided that it could not possibly be someone’s bedroom, and therefore it would be alright if they checked what was inside.

Later, they had decided to not tell anyone about their discovery. It would become another one of their hiding places, much like the spare bedrooms, though with considerably more space. Since then, the only person they had broken down and told was Lillian, and that had been years later.

Christian still felt like a trespasser every time he wandered up into the servants’ corridor, though he had been there many times since the attic’s discovery. Whenever he climbed the staircase to the house’s highest floor, he was breaking an unspoken rule, though no one save his father and mother would punish him for it, and they were unlikely to find out. Still, he crept along the hallway in silence, careful not to disturb anything or alert anyone who might be lingering nearby to his presence.  

Unfortunately, the doorway to the attic was as far from the staircase that led up from the third floor as it could possibly be. The servants’ corridor was divided in two, with one side for the men and one for the women, separated by a locked door that only the head housekeeper could open. Thankfully, however, the staircase from the third floor led up into the male quarters and, though the hallway was long, when one reached the dividing door they only had to turn right into a branching corridor and, at the end, the door to the attic would be waiting.

It was that path that Christian took now, careful to move as quickly and as quietly as possible. It had been sometime since he last ventured up there, and he nearly forgot that the attic door needed to be opened as slowly as it could, or else it would give a loud, screeching creak. The stairs were rather squeaky as well, and Christian took care not to step too heavily on them.

If Oskar wasn’t up there, he was going to kill him when he did find him.

Another door stood at the top of the stairs, and Christian took less care with this one, though it was just as loud as the first. Inside, a sea of white drapes obscured the floor. The items stored up here were, for the most part, old paintings that had become torn or discoloured and were not valuable enough to repair. The only reason they had not been thrown away, Christian suspected, was because of his mother’s sentimentality—though the paintings no longer hung on the walls, he supposed she took some comfort in knowing they still existed, somewhere in the house.

There were three small windows in the attic and, to Christian’s relief, Oskar was sitting in front of one. He had turned at his brother’s arrival and was staring at him now with narrowed eyes, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and Christian scowled at him.

“I came to find you,” Christian explained, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Mor was looking for you.”

Oskar’s frown deepened. “I know,” he said. “Why do you suppose I am here?”

“I do not think you are in trouble,” Christian told him. “She didn’t seem angry—more urgent, in fact. She had been looking for Lillian, as well.”

Oskar let out a loud sigh, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. “I know,” he repeated, and Christian raised an eyebrow at him. “She wishes to talk about the portrait that Far has commissioned. I have been hiding up here since late morning.”

Christian laughed. “You were acting as if it was something serious,” he said. “I thought you had done something horrible, but you are simply hiding from a conversation about jackets and pants.”

Oskar glowered at his brother. “You are so easy to dress,” he argued. “You do not know how terrible it can be, talking with Mor endlessly about boots that will not even been seen in the painting.”

Christian shook his head, smirking. Several weeks ago, their father had decided that he wanted a portrait of his children to be painted before Lillian got married and moved away, as the most recent one of all three of them had been painted several years before. Oskar had complained and moaned about it for days—he always hated getting portraits done, as he despised sitting still for hours on end with nothing to do and he was absolutely impossible to dress. He disliked whatever their mother picked, and she disliked whatever he picked. It was always a constant battle between the two of them when a portrait was commissioned.

“Hiding will not make it better,” Christian told him. “You might as well face her before she becomes even angrier.”

“Portraits are so dreadful,” Oskar whined, letting himself slowly slide down the chair he was sitting on until he was nearly lying on it.

Christian gave him an overdramatic sympathetic look, sighing wistfully and collapsing onto a nearby stool. “Oh, however do you live?” he asked, one hand placed over his heart. “Having to sit through all those portraits. Life is hard, is it not, in this large house with all these servants?”

“I did not mean it like that,” Oskar argued, scowling. “They’re just tedious and boring. All you do is sit in the same position for hours on end.”

“Oh, stop,” Christian said, jumping to his feet. “You’ll survive. Now come on—there is no sense in hiding from Mor forever, and it’s freezing up here. You’ll fall ill if you stay any longer.”

Oskar frowned, but didn’t argue, standing and following Christian back down the attic stairs and the servants’ corridor to the third floor.

◊◊◊

Jakob Nielsen’s paintbrush glided over the canvas, adding colour to the sketched face of the elderly woman sitting in front of him. He had been working on a portrait of her for several weeks now, and he would soon be finished; after the main part of the painting was done, he had only the details to add in.

The woman shifted in her seat, and Jakob glanced up at her. She was a member of Copenhagen’s upper class, well-dressed but incredibly talkative. She chatted the entire time Jakob worked, about trivial things he knew little about and didn’t care for. Her husband had commissioned the portrait, and he was paying well, so Jakob didn’t complain.

It had been nearly six years since his graduation from the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts. His focus had always been on portraiture—to him, the ability to capture someone’s image and likeness was an incredible thing, and he was able to create scenes around his subjects. Most of his work was commissions, and though he did not often get many most paid well enough that he was able to live comfortably.

The elderly woman sighed, moving her hands about in her lap. Jakob looked up at her, his brush hovering near the canvas.

“I am nearly finished, Fru Øster,” he said, turning his attention back to the painting. “Then you shall be free.”

“Will there be need of another session after this?” Fru Øster asked, trying her best to stay still.

Jakob thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I do not believe so, no,” he said. “I will be able to finish the portrait up quite easily.”

“May I see it after we are done today?”

“Of course,” Jakob said, smiling.

Less than an hour later they were finished, and Fru Øster stood admiring the portrait as Jakob cleaned his supplies and packed them away.

“It’s marvellous,” she said, one hand on her chest as she leaned in to get a closer look. “It’s a very beautiful scene.” Straightening, she turned to Jakob and smiled. “You are incredibly talented.”

“Thank you,” Jakob said, bowing his head slightly. “It should be finished within a fortnight.”

Fru Øster’s smile widened. “Wonderful,” she said. “I shall see you then.”

Jakob nodded, and departed soon after the elderly woman had left. A carriage was waiting for him outside her home, and he sat silent throughout the entire ride, staring pensively out the window at the city’s busy streets. It had begun to snow, the flakes lazily falling from the sky before melting on the cobblestone roads.

He was glad when the carriage finally reached his home. It was a small building located on one of Copenhagen’s quieter streets, but it was comfortable and it suited him. Inside, everything was quiet save for the continuous ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlour. A fire had been lit in every fireplace, so it was warm, though his maid, Ane, was nowhere to be seen.

Figuring she had gone to the market, he wandered upstairs to his studio. He put all his supplies back into their rightful place before going over to the small roll top desk shoved into a corner of the room. Its surface was covered in several letters of correspondence detailing various commissions and, searching through the letters, he tried to determine which he would be doing next. It appeared as if, in just under three weeks’ time, he would be starting a portrait commissioned by a nobleman of his three children. They lived nearly an hour outside of Copenhagen, but the pay was incredibly good and a carriage would be provided to take him to and from the house whenever needed.  

Nodding to himself, he dropped the letter back unto the desk at the sound of the front door opening and Ane’s voice downstairs, calling out for him.

“ _Ja_ ,” he replied, hurrying out of his study and back down to the first floor. “What is it?”

Ane looked up at him, shrugging her coat off her shoulders and hanging it up on the nearby wall. “I am making stew for dinner,” she said, picking up the basket she had set on the ground. “Is that alright?”

Jakob nodded. “Would you like any help?” he asked.

“If you have nothing else to do,” Ane said, shrugging. “I always enjoy cooking with you.”

Jakob smiled. It had been just over a year since he had hired Ane, and he had quickly found that she was more of a friend than a maid. His parents had never been particularly rich, and hadn’t had the money to hire a maid until Jakob was eleven. After he left his hometown of Aalborg, in the north of Jutland, and moved to Copenhagen, he had lived alone until he had hired Ane, though she didn’t actually live with him. She had her own home a few blocks away, and she split her time between him and a family down the street, as he didn’t have enough money to pay her for a full week.

Still, he enjoyed her company immensely. He was often alone, and have her around was comforting. They often cooked together, something which Jakob had always loved, and there were many times where he forgot Ane was his maid.

He followed her to the kitchen, where she began unpacking the basket, piling the various vegetables on the counter. Turning to him, she smiled.

“How is your painting?” she asked, handing him a handful of carrots to begin cleaning and cutting.

“Very good,” Jakob replied with a nod. “I will be finished very soon, and she seemed rather pleased with it.”

“That is good,” Ane said. “Do you have a commission after this one?”

“Yes, for a nobleman,” Jakob answered, and Ane’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Where does he live?”

Jakob shrugged. “Only an hour outside the city,” he said. “He will be sending a carriage for me.”

“Who is the portrait of?” Ane asked, grabbing a bowl and filling it with water. “His wife? Or someone else?”

“His children,” Jakob explained. “Two sons and a daughter.”

Ane nodded in approval. “That will probably pay very well,” she said.

Jakob laughed, shaking his head. “You are just wishing for more money.”

“Of course,” Ane said with a loud laugh. “I have to eat.”

“Oh, I know you eat just fine,” he argued. “I would never let you go hungry.”

Ane flicked her wet fingertips at him, spraying him with water, and they both laughed. It was at times like these that Jakob was glad he had Ane—she always made him much happier.

◊◊◊

**3 Weeks Later**

Like Christian had predicted, that first snow had come and gone in only a matter of days, and it hadn’t snowed since, though the temperature still remained low.

“Why is it so cold?” Oskar asked as the two of them walked along the road, heading towards the nearby village. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his large frock coat, and he glared at the cloudy wisps his breath made.

“It is nearly winter,” Christian pointed out, and Oskar scowled. “And it could be much colder. Do you not remember the Christmas we spent in Norway with Far’s cousin?”

Oskar shuddered. “I despise the cold,” he said. “I cannot wait until spring.”

Christian scoffed. “I am afraid you have a long wait, then.” It was not even December yet, though that month was soon approaching. Their mother had already begun planning various events for Christmas—relatives from Jutland were planning to stay with them for the holidays, as was Lillian’s fiancé.

Oskar pulled a face. “Do not remind me,” he said. “Winter has not even begun.”

“It is not so bad,” Christian argued. “The snow is very beautiful, when it doesn’t melt after a few days. And usually it is not even that cold, so you have nothing to complain about.”

“I can complain if I want.”

Christian scoffed. “I have no trouble believing that.”

Oskar glared at him. “Why are we even going to the village?” he asked. “The portraitist will be here soon, and Mor will be furious if we are late.”

“Lillian asked me to check the post office for any letters for her,” Christian explained. “And I would like to visit the bookstore and see if they have any new arrivals.” Oskar let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, and Christian added, “You didn’t have to come with me, you know. I am perfectly capable of going to the village on my own.”

“I came to make sure you are back on time,” Oskar said, and Christian laughed.

“Yes, because you are so responsible yourself.”

“I can be,” Oskar argued. “I sometimes simply choose not to be.”

“Whatever you say,” Christian said, shaking his head.

◊◊◊

The house was absolutely amazing—one of the largest Jakob had ever seen. The grounds themselves were wondrous, but the interior was astounding. Paintings lined every hallway and hung on every inch of available wall space. Most were portraits, most likely of ancestors and relatives, Jakob guessed, but there were also several incredible landscapes. He could spend hours wandering the house’s corridors, observing each and every piece of artwork.

Unfortunately, however, that was not what he was there to do. A butler met him at the door and lead him to a small parlour, where an imposing man with dark hair streaked through with grey stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. On a nearby couch, a woman with silver hair sat in conversation with a younger lady who, for some reason, looked strikingly familiar to Jakob, though he knew he had never seen her before in his life.

He could not contemplate that for long, however, as the man had turned his attention to him and was walking over to where Jakob stood, hand outstretched.

“Jakob Nielsen, I assume?” he asked, and Jakob nodded, quickly taking his hand.

“Yes,” he said. “It is a privilege to be here, my Lord.”

The Count nodded. “My wife, Lady Agathe,” he said, motioning to the older woman, who bowed her head in greeting. “And my daughter, Lady Lillian.” The girl smiled. “Unfortunately,” the Count continued, drawing Jakob’s attention back to him. “My sons seem to have disappeared for the moment. No one is able to find them.”

“They will turn up soon,” Lillian said, and Jakob startled at her voice—it was almost definitely one he had heard before, though he could not think of how that was possible. “Fisker has gone to the village looking for them.”

Her father nodded in understanding. “In the meantime,” he said, nodding to the butler who had remained standing by the door. “Bjarnsen here shall show you to the room where the portrait will be painted, and you can begin your preparations. Hopefully it will not take too long to find the boys.”

“Thank you very much,” Jakob said, bowing his head before turning to the butler, Bjarnsen, who opened the door and motioned for him to exit.

He led him up a nearby staircase and down a maze of hallways to a room empty of nearly all furniture, save for a couch, an armchair, a table, and a stool.

“Will you need assistance with anything?” Bjarnsen asked as Jakob set his supplies down on the table.

“No, thank you,” he answered with a shake of his head, and Bjarnsen nodded, quickly leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

◊◊◊

Lillian arrived ten minutes later with her mother, obviously trying not to laugh as Agathe huffed into the room, a deep scowl on her face.

“Do not be so cross, Mor,” Lillian said, sitting down on the couch. “It is not nearly as serious as you make it out to be.”

“He was simply told to check for letters at the post office,” Agathe argued. “But instead he spends an hour strolling through the shops.”

“It is alright,” Lillian said, her voice quiet. “It is not a big problem. They returned soon enough, and all is once again right in the world.”

Agathe gave a long-suffering sigh, going over to her daughter and adjusting the short strand of pearl wrapped around her neck. “Let us hope they will be here soon,” she muttered.

“They are just getting changed,” Lillian assured her. “They are rather fast at that.”

Agathe said nothing, her lips pursed unhappily, before turning to Jakob. “My sons have just returned from the village,” she explained. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting like this.”

Jakob shook his head. “It is perfectly alright, my Lady,” he said with a smile.

“They can be dreadfully troublesome, my sons,” Agathe said with a sigh. “They are twenty and nineteen—one would think they would have learned to look after themselves by now.”

A few minutes later, the pounding of footsteps sounded in the hallway and two boys burst through the door, one pushing the other through with a disgruntled growl.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” he was saying, his voice a hissed whisper. His back was turned on Jakob, so he could not see his face, but his brother looked annoyed. “And now we are both in trouble because you couldn’t keep yourself from wandering off and chasing after the village girls.”

“You knew—”

“Christian, Oskar,” Agathe snapped, striding over to where the boys stood. “That is enough. We will discuss this later.”

Oskar frowned, but nodded. “ _Ja_ , Mor,” he said, going over and sitting beside his sister. Jakob watched the two, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. There was something about them both that was eerily familiar, and no matter how hard he thought he could not figure out why.

“Christian, please sit down,” Agathe said quietly, pushing her son towards the couch and drawing Jakob’s attention back to them. “You have already held everyone up enough, and there is no need to argue right now.”

Christian grumbled something unhappily but complied. As he turned towards the couch, he glanced at Jakob and paused, his eyes going wide and his mouth falling open in shock.

“Oh.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Bilbo opened his mouth to speak before quickly catching himself. Thorin’s siblings were staring at him expectantly, and his mother still stood by the door, an exasperated look on her face.

“Christian.” It was Dís who spoke up, drawing both Thorin’s and Bilbo’s attention towards her. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Thorin said nothing at first, glancing back at Bilbo for a split second before nodding. “Yes, I’m fine,” he answered, hurrying over to the couch and sitting down.

“I would love to stay,” Agathe said, and Bilbo turned to face her. “But I have things to attend to. You are ready to start?”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes, thank you, my Lady,” he said.

Agathe smiled. “Organize them however you like,” she told him, motioning to her children. “My husband spoke to you about how he would like it to look?”

“Yes, he did,” Bilbo said with another nod.

“Then I shall leave you to it,” she said, before looking at her sons. “Behave you two. Please.”

With that she was gone, and Bilbo turned back towards the three siblings. Oskar—Frerin, Bilbo reminded himself—already looked bored, and was inspecting the knotted floorboards under his feet. Dís was saying something to Thorin, too quietly for Bilbo to hear, but he didn’t seem to be paying her any regard. All his attention was focused on Bilbo, who gave him a small smile before doing his best to school his features into neutrality, and stood.

“Your name is Christian, correct?” he asked, walking around to the front of his easel and looking at Thorin, who stared wide-eyed at him as if he had been expecting him to say something completely different.

He nodded, and Bilbo smiled again. “Would you mind standing behind the couch?” he questioned, and Thorin shook his head.

When he had moved to the back of the couch, Bilbo turned his attention to the other two. “Now, could you sit closer to each other?”

“Of course,” Dís said with a smile, shuffling closer to her youngest brother, who did the same.

“Thank you very much,” Bilbo said, bowing his head and returning behind the easel. “I think that position will do just fine.”

Grabbing a piece of charcoal, he began sketching the outline of the portrait onto the canvas, turning the couch into what looked like a garden bench, glancing up every so often.

“Could you put both hands on the back of the couch, Lord Christian?” Bilbo asked, breaking the silence that had permeated the room for the past several minutes. “One on top of the other, just like that.”

Thorin complied, putting his hands together on the couch back and straightening his posture in the process. “Will I have to stand here like this all day?” he asked, and Bilbo smiled slightly, shaking his head.

“ _Nej_ ,” he answered. “Only until I have drawn the positions, which will not take long.”

Thorin nodded, and no one said anything else for a long while. Bilbo was bursting to speak—he longed to talk with Thorin, to actually say something meaningful to him. But painters did not speak with their clients, especially if they were the sons of noblemen. So he remained quiet and focused on his work, trying not to get lost in the thoughts racing around his mind.

The minutes ticked by in silence. Occasionally the siblings would talk quietly amongst themselves, but never for long before they fell quiet again.

For a moment Bilbo wondered how his time with Thorin would end here—would he somehow end up lying once more on the ground, bleeding and in excruciating pain, or would everything, in some extraordinary way, end well for once?

Though he wished he didn’t, he was quite sure he knew which once was more likely.

◊◊◊

The sun was beginning to set when Bilbo finally announced that he was done for the day. Frerin was the first on his feet, giving Bilbo a quick thanks before all but running from the room, a look of immense relief on his face. Dís stayed for longer, talking with Bilbo about the painting and other work he had done while Thorin held back, lingering near the couch and wringing his hands together anxiously.

When Dís finally turned to leave, she gave him an expectant look, as if wondering if he was going to be coming with her or not. He shook his head, and told her he would see her at dinner. She looked confused, but said nothing, leaving the room with one last nod at Bilbo.

Once she gone, Thorin quickly hurried over to the door, closing it quietly before turning and running to Bilbo. He threw his arms around him, pulling him as close as he possibly could.

“Bilbo,” he breathed, his fingers twining into Bilbo’s hair.

Bilbo laughed, clutching tightly to the back of Thorin’s jacket, not even thinking about the charcoal covering his hands. Thorin could feel the tears welling up in his eyes but he held them back, burying his face in Bilbo’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I am too,” Bilbo murmured, turning and kissing the side of Thorin’s head.

Thorin lifted his head and smiled, cupping Bilbo’s face in his hands. “I cannot believe this keeps happening,” he muttered, and kissed him.

They broke apart quickly when a pair of footsteps sounded outside the door. Thankfully, however, they kept walking, but Bilbo still frowned.

“You should go,” he said, turning towards his supplies and nervously gathering them up. “People will begin to wonder where you are, and I must get home before dark. We will talk more another time.”

Thorin’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Where do you live?”

“Copenhagen,” Bilbo said. “Someone will be up any minute to bring me to the carriage.” He paused for a moment, sighing loudly. “I hate this. I hate having to hide and lie every time.”

“What else can we do?” Thorin asked and Bilbo’s frown deepened.

“All we can do is live with it,” he said after several seconds had passed. “At least for now.” Dropping his supplies back on to the table, he walked over to Thorin, one hand reaching up to sweep the hair away from his face.

“I love you so much, you know?” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo nodded.

“I love you, too,” he replied, kissing him gently. Pulling back, he let his hand drop to his side. “Now you must go. Quickly, before someone comes looking for one or both of us.”

Thorin nodded. “When will you return?” he asked, backing towards the door.

“Two days,” Bilbo answered. “I shall see you then.”

Thorin smiled and, after only a moment’s hesitation, turned and hurried out the door, leaving it open behind him.

◊◊◊

Thorin sat in front of a window in the library, an unopened book in his lap. His gaze was focused on the world outside, where a light, misting rain was falling, making everything damp and cold. It was mid-morning, and soon the carriage that had left a few hours before would be returning with Bilbo inside.

He felt a bit odd, sitting by a window waiting for Bilbo to return. But there was little else that he could do—whenever he tried, he found himself constantly returning to the window, looking for any sign of the carriage.

“What are you looking at?”

Thorin jumped at his sister’s voice, turning to see her standing in the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back.

“You had a very intense look on your face,” she noted, leaving the doorway and walking closer to him.

“I was watching the rain,” Thorin lied, looking back out the window.

Dís smirked. “You looked like a wife pining for her lost husband,” she said, and Thorin glared at her.

“Who would I be pining for, Lillian?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I would not know,” she said, still grinning.

Thorin’s scowl deepened. “What are you doing here?”

“Mor sent me to find you,” Dís explained. “The portraitist will be here soon, and you must get ready.”

Thorin nodded, setting the book he had been holding down on a nearby table and standing. “Is Oskar dressed yet?”

“I’ve no idea where Oskar is,” Dís said with a sigh. “I have looked all over for him. I suppose he is trying to hide for as long as he possibly can.”

“I’ll find him,” Thorin said, casting one last look out the window before walking with his sister to the door.

Dís nodded. “Get dressed first, though,” she told him. “It would be better to only have one of you late than both.”

“Alright,” Thorin said. “I shall see you in a short while.”

“Be quick about it,” Dís advised as he turned and wandered down the hallway towards his room. “Let’s try not to keep Mr. Nielsen waiting again.”

◊◊◊

All three siblings were waiting in the room when Bilbo arrived, lead by the same butler as two days before whom, he realized quite suddenly, had a striking resemblance to Balin, only slightly younger. He had tried his best not to stare as they had wound their way through the ornate corridors to the same room that had been used only a couple of days prior. The butler held himself in much the same way as Balin had, and when they entered the room he gave both Thorin and Frerin a look that very much seemed to tell them that they should watch themselves. Frerin looked very insulted by that look, and glared at Balin like a child would glare at a tutor, though the butler ignored it.

“Will you be needing anything?” he asked Bilbo, who shook his head, smiling.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I think this will be just fine.”

Balin nodded and quickly left the room, closing the door behind him. Bilbo got to work quickly, arranging the siblings into the proper positions and getting out all his necessary materials.

Frerin and Dís were much more talkative than the previous day, chatting quietly with each other while Bilbo worked, planning to add some final touches to the charcoal drawing before he began painting. Thorin, however, was for the most part very quiet, and whenever Bilbo glanced up he seemed to be lost in thought, though his eyes never strayed from where Bilbo sat.

Over an hour later, Bilbo finally finished the charcoal drawing and began mixing the paint, getting the right colours he would need and setting out his various brushes. He started with Dís—her hair was dark like Thorin’s, though her face was much rounder and her nose less prominent. She looked nearly identical to Elspeth, though her hair and dresses were very different. It was odd to see this woman who looked so much like one of his closest friends, and yet who didn’t know him at all. And in a way, he didn’t know her either—she was no longer Elspeth, and didn’t remember the life she had lived over eighty years ago in another country. She had the same looks and personality, but she was a different person.

“Could you please look at me, Lady Lillian?” he asked, and Dís complied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Bilbo looked up at her, and smiled in return. “You have very beautiful eyes,” he observed. “They are a very rich colour.”

Dís’s smile widened. Her eyes were much darker than either of her brothers’—where theirs were an icy blue, her’s were a deep, nearly indigo, colour. Bilbo added a small amount of purple to the dark blue he had already mixed, bringing it closer to Dís’s true eye colour.

Looking up again, he turned his attention to Frerin and Thorin. “You two may leave, if you wish,” he said. “I am afraid there is little reason for you to stay—the rest of my time today will most likely be spent painting Lady Lillian.”

Frerin was on his feet and out the door in seconds, muttering a quick thank you to Bilbo as he passed by. Thorin, however, seemed to hesitate, his gaze jumping from Bilbo to Dís to the door where Frerin had disappeared. Bilbo smiled warmly at him, trying to assure him that he would see him later. Thorin left a few seconds later, after pausing by the easel to thank Bilbo, who reached out and touched his hand, lightly and quickly enough that Dís didn’t see.

◊◊◊

Thorin stood inside the doorway of a room next to the one where Bilbo was working, the door open just enough for him to see outside into the corridor. It was mid-afternoon, and he had been sitting in the front parlour trying to focus on a letter to his cousin when, in the hallway, a butler had told one of the footmen to go tell the stable boys to prepare the carriage for Mr. Nielsen.

He had hurried upstairs and, hearing Dís and Bilbo talking behind the closed door, had slipped into a nearby sitting room to wait until his sister left. When the door did finally open and Dís walked out, Thorin watched her quietly until she disappeared down the hallway before he practically ran to the room where Bilbo now stood, collecting his various supplies.

He looked up when Thorin entered, blinking in surprise.

“Thorin,” he said. “How did—”

“I just spent the last ten minutes hiding in a sitting room,” Thorin explained, a smile stretching across his face. “Watching the corridor until my sister left.”

Bilbo stared at him for a moment before laughing. “Why?” he asked.

“I wanted to see you before you left,” Thorin explained. “To talk to you like a real person.”

Bilbo smiled. “I’m glad you did.” Setting the brushes he had been holding back down and going over to Thorin, he cupped his face with his paint-covered hands. Rubbing one thumb absently along his cheek bone, Bilbo’s expression softened. “How long do you think we have this time?” he whispered.

Thorin said nothing for a moment, his mouth falling open before quickly closing again, unsure of what to say.

“In Middle-earth, we were together for... what, seven months?” Bilbo said, dropping his hands and shoving them into his pockets. “And you spent half of that time hating me.”

“I never ha—” Thorin started, but stopped at the look Bilbo gave him.

“Then in Scotland it was only five... six months,” Bilbo continued, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip as he paced the room. “We were apart for most of that, anyways. Then it wasn’t even a day. Thorin, I died less than a day after meeting you again.” He paused, looking at Thorin with his eyebrows creased. “What about this time? Will I die again? Or will you? I don’t want to lose you for a second time, Thorin.”

Thorin stared at him, blinking. “Why are you talking like this?” he asked, and Bilbo sighed, burying his face in his hands.

“Because I’m scared,” he mumbled. “I love you so much, Thorin. When you first showed up on my doorstep back at Bag End, I never thought I could like you, let alone love you as much as I do. And I was so happy when I saw you walk into the room two days ago. But now... when I look at you I feel scared. I don’t want you to die, and I don’t want to die either. But that’s what has been happening—we meet, and then we die, whether it is months or hours later.”

Thorin swallowed thickly. He wasn’t sure what to say—what could he say? They were both silent for a moment.

“Do you think this is Hell?” Thorin asked after several seconds had gone by.

“What?”

“This... cycle,” Thorin explained. “Do you think it’s Hell? That this is God punishing us?”

Bilbo was quiet, staring at Thorin with sad eyes. He looked as if he was about to reply when the door opened and a butler stepped in. It was Bjarnsen—the man had worked for Thorin’s family since he was a child, and he had realized quite suddenly the day before that he was, or at least had been, Balin.

“Oh, Lord Christian,” Balin said, noticing Thorin and giving a slight bow. “I did not think you would be up here.”

“I was just talking to Mr. Nielsen about the painting,” Thorin lied, nervously glancing at Bilbo, who had turned away from him and was quickly gathering up his supplies.

Balin nodded in understanding. “I just came to fetch Mr. Nielsen,” he explained, turning to Bilbo. “Your carriage is ready, sir.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Bilbo answered, his words coming out rapidly and all at once. “I will be ready in just a moment.”

“I can take Bi—Mr. Nielsen to the carriage,” Thorin offered. “I am sure you have a lot of work to do, Bjarnsen, and it would make no sense for you to stand here waiting for Mr. Nielsen to clean up.”

“It is perfectly alright with me,” Balin argued. “There is no need for you to bring Mr. Nielsen to the carriage.”

“Do not worry, Bjarnsen,” Thorin assured him, resting one hand on his shoulder. “I can do this.”

Balin seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing from Bilbo to Thorin. “Is this alright with you, Mr. Nielsen?” he asked, and Bilbo looked up from where he had been sorting his brushes.

“Yes, of course,” he said, nodding. “I would be delighted to get the chance to talk to Lord Christian some more about the portrait.”

Balin watched him for a moment before nodding himself. “Then I shall leave it to you, Lord Christian,” he said. “Be sure not to keep the carriage waiting for too long. It appears as if the rain is soon going to grow heavier.”

Thorin nodded and with that Balin excused himself, letting the door close gently behind him. They stood in silence for a while, neither of them entirely sure what to say.

“I love you,” Thorin whispered after a moment had passed, his voice just loud enough for Bilbo to hear.

“I know,” Bilbo replied, closing his brush case and clicking it shut. “I love you, too. But I’m just... I’m scared for what’s going to happen.”

“You don’t need to be,” Thorin said, stepping closer and putting both hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. “I love you, and I will always try my best to be with you. It does not matter to me if this really is Hell, so long as I have you, even if it is only for a short while.”

Bilbo took in a deep breath and let himself lean in towards Thorin, wrapping his arms around him. “I know,” he repeated, his voice hushed. “Of course I know that. And we’ll... we’ll have to get through this together. There isn’t anyone else we can turn to.”

Thorin smiled, though it was small and sad, and gently kissed Bilbo, his lips lingering on his skin. “You will be back tomorrow?” he asked, and Bilbo nodded.

“I’ll paint you next,” he murmured. “Then we can speak more.”

“Alright,” Thorin agreed, pulling back slightly. “Now, we should not keep the carriage waiting any longer, or else Balin will be angry with me.”

Bilbo perked up at the sound of Balin’s name, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I knew that was Balin,” he said, clapping his hands together happily. “He looks so different, without the forked beard and tall hair.”

“His nose is quite a bit smaller, as well,” Thorin said, and Bilbo gave a quiet laugh.

“Yours is as well, you know,” he pointed out. “Much less Dwarvish.”

Thorin smirked, shaking his head. “Come,” he said, motioning to the door. “If all of your things are collected, I will take you to the carriage.”

Bilbo nodded and, grabbing his supplies, followed Thorin out into the hallway. “I do quite miss the braids, though,” he mumbled as Thorin lead him towards the staircase. “And the beard. They suited you.”

Thorin laughed, and glanced back to look at Bilbo. “Maybe one day I will grow a beard again for you.”

◊◊◊

Dís sat poised perfectly still, her hands resting delicately on her lap. Bilbo studied her carefully, noticing how the light bounced off the strand of pearls on her neck and carefully highlighting the necklace in the portrait.

“You are a very good subject, Lady Lillian,” he told her with a smile. “Most people fidget endlessly, but you stay completely still—few people are so good with getting their portrait painted.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dís said, smiling in return. “I suppose I have had some practice, and my mother told me when I was a child that if I sat still, it would be over sooner.”

Bilbo nodded in agreement. “That is certainly true,” he said. “I am nearly finished painting, actually.”

“Ah, very good,” Dís said. “You seem to be very skilled, Mr. Nielsen.”

“Thank you very much, Lady Lillian,” Bilbo said, smiling at her gratefully.

“I can never understand how some people are so talented,” she said with a sigh. “I can hardly draw, let alone paint such a realistic portrait.”

“It is all a matter of practice, my Lady,” Bilbo replied. “I spent most of my youth drawing crude portraits of my family, and I was simply lucky enough to have the opportunity to pursue it as a livelihood. I have had many wonderful teachers throughout my life, and I put much of my time into practicing.”

“I do not think I have that dedication,” Dís said, momentarily pursing her lips unhappily before looking at Bilbo, a curious expression on her face. “Tell me about your family,” she asked, quickly adding, “If you would like.”

Bilbo nodded. “I would love to, my Lady,” he answered. “I grew up in Aalborg, where my father owned a rather successful shop. I have no siblings, and my few cousins were much younger than me, so my home was very quiet when I was young. I enjoyed it, however—in addition to portraits of my parents, I often drew scenes of various rooms in our home. It was always very peaceful and calm.”

“That sounds very nice,” Dís said, smiling. “Aalborg is a very lovely city. It is where my fiancé lives.”

“Then you shall soon be living there as well,” Bilbo said, and Dís nodded.

“It seems a lovely place to grow up,” she said. “I feel as though I would get lonely, however, without any siblings or cousins. My home has always been very busy.”

“It is nice, though, to know you always have family nearby,” Bilbo pointed out, setting his brush down. “They are there when you need them.”

“That is true,” she said with a nod. “You are a very kind person, you know, Mr. Nielsen, and incredibly easy to talk to.”

Bilbo stood, nodding in thanks. “Thank you very much, my Lady,” he said. “You are very kind yourself. Kinder than most.”

Dís smiled. “Have we finished for today?” she asked, standing as Bilbo nodded again.

“Would you like to see what I have done so far?” he questioned, and Dís nodded enthusiastically, hurrying around to the other side of the easel.

“It’s amazing,” she said, staring at the painting in wonder. “It looks so... realistic, even if most of it is unpainted.”

Bilbo smiled gratefully. “Thank you very much, Lady Lillian,” he said.

“It is no wonder Far commissioned you,” Dís said. “You are incredibly talented.”

“Thank you.”

“I am very grateful to you for doing this,” she told him, before turning and heading towards the door. “I will tell Bjarnsen to send Christian up. He should not be long.”

Bilbo nodded once more. “I shall see you in a few days, my Lady,” he said, and she smiled at him one last time before opening the door and walking out into the hallway.

◊◊◊

**2 Weeks Later**

Bilbo stood to the side, his hands crossed behind his back as the portrait hanging on the wall was inspected. He had finished it the day before, and it had been hung on the wall of the main sitting room less than an hour ago. Thorin, his siblings, and his parents had all hurried in to see it, commenting on how beautiful and perfectly done it was.

“You are incredibly talented, Mr. Nielsen,” Agathe said, smiling warmly at Bilbo.

“Thank you, Lady Agathe,” Bilbo said with a polite nod. “It has been my pleasure.”

“We shall have to commission you for other works,” Thorin’s father—Thráin—said. “Your work is highly commendable.”

Bilbo nodded once more in thanks, turning to look at the portrait himself. It was one of the largest pieces he had worked on, with three subjects and a sizable canvas, but one that he found it was easy to be proud of. A large part of portraiture, he felt, was being able to capture the essence of someone in a painting and, having known both Thorin and Dís for a long period of time, he thought that he had done just that. Frerin had been more difficult, but Bilbo had been able to piece together a nice enough picture of him from what Thorin told him and the few conversations he had had with him.

It was also, of course, a very beautiful portrait, though he felt odd thinking that. Ane always told him that he was too humble—he was extremely talented, she said, and should allow himself to recognise that occasionally. And as he observed the painting, he let himself be prideful for once. There were parts that he would like to change, but that was true for all portraits, and he found that this one had fewer than most. The background complimented the subjects very nicely, and it matched the style of the rest of the sitting room as well. So, for once, he allowed himself to think that he had done a relatively good job.

“Thank you very much,” Agathe said, drawing Bilbo’s attention from the painting. “We shall enjoy this portrait for a very long time.”

“It had been an absolute privilege to paint it,” Bilbo told her, bowing slightly. “Thank you.”

Agathe nodded in acknowledgement and smiled, before turning to leave. She was followed shortly by her husband, who gave Bilbo one final nod as thanks before leaving, a footman close behind.

“It is very nice,” Frerin told Bilbo, shaking his hand shortly before hurrying out the door into the hallway, casting one last look at the painting.

Dís approached him soon after, thanking him earnestly for his work. “I shall hope to see you again soon,” she told him. “I am to be married in the spring, and perhaps I shall commission you to paint a portrait of me and my husband.”

“I would be honoured to do so,” Bilbo said, taking her hand and lightly pressing his lips to it. “You are an absolute delight to work with, Lady Lillian.”

Dís smiled widely. “Then I shall see you soon,” she said, and Bilbo nodded as she slowly left the room, turning several times to look back at the portrait before stepping into the hall, closing the door behind her and leaving only Bilbo and Thorin.

“Have you always been this talented?” Thorin asked, turning look at Bilbo with a smirk on his face.

“Not always,” Bilbo said, slowly moving closer to Thorin as he spoke. “I could draw relatively well before, but most of this came after years of practice and training.”

“It appears to have been well worth it,” Thorin observed. “My family was very impressed, and I am sure that will mean more work for you.”

“Then perhaps I shall be able to see you more often,” Bilbo said. “For I don’t know if we will be able to meet for a while, as I have no reason to come here anymore.”

Thorin frowned, his arms crossed over his chest. “Perhaps I can find a way to visit you in Copenhagen,” he suggested. “I have many friends there, and my parents will believe me if I say that I am going to visit one for a week.”

“But would you have to tell them the name of an actual friend?” Bilbo asked. “Otherwise they might become suspicious. And even if you do, what if they later talk to that friend and realize that you lied?”

“My parents will not care if they have heard of the person or not,” Thorin assured him. “Though Frerin and Dís will be much more difficult...” He paused, running his teeth over his bottom lip. “I shall have to think more deeply about it. Give me your address, so I can write to you. It will likely be some time before my father commissions another portrait, and I would like to see you before then.”

Bilbo smiled, and followed Thorin over to a nearby desk. A pen was already laying there, and Bilbo dipped it in a well of ink as Thorin procured a piece of paper. He hastily wrote his address down, blowing on the page in order to quickly dry the ink before folding it up and handing it to Thorin.

“Write as soon as you can,” he said, his voice quiet as he glanced towards the door. “I’m afraid I must go now, but I will see you soon. No matter what.”

Thorin smiled and kissed him quickly, carefully putting the slip of paper in his coat pocket.

“I love you,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hands in his own.

“I love you, too,” Thorin whispered.

“Stay safe, until I see you again,” Bilbo told him, and Thorin nodded, letting his hands drop to his sides as Bilbo turned towards the door.

“I promise.”

◊◊◊

**1 Month Later**

Thorin watched as the streets of Copenhagen passed by, the carriage jostling down the cobblestone roads. A thin layer of snow covered everything, and from the grey clouds gathering overhead it appeared as if more was to come. Despite the oncoming weather, the city was still full of people, bustling about on errands and visits. It had been a long time since he had last visited Copenhagen—it was near enough to his home, but there was little reason for him to go, so he rarely did.

The driver pulled up in front of a tall brick townhouse, bringing the horses to a halt and climbing down from his seat. He wasn’t Thorin’s family driver, as he knew where Bilbo lived and would ask why Thorin was visiting him. Instead, Thorin had had him take him to the house of a friend that he had said he would be staying with, and had borrowed his driver. Thankfully, neither of them asked questions—his friend owed Thorin a favour, and had likely concocted some story for his driver.

As Thorin stepped down onto the street, the house’s front door opened and Bilbo appeared, a wide smile on his face. His coat was unbuttoned, its collar skewed as if he had thrown it on in a hurry, but he still rushed down the steps to greet Thorin, clasping his hand tightly.

“It is so good to see you again,” he said, his voice quiet as the driver unloaded Thorin’s luggage. It was only one trunk, and Bilbo quickly assured the driver that they could bring it inside themselves.

“Then I shall see you in one week, my Lord?” the man asked, turning to Thorin, who nodded.

“Thank you very much,” Thorin said. “It is incredibly kind of you do to this, and I am so sorry for inconveniencing you in any way.”

The driver smiled, bowing his head. “It is no trouble at all, my Lord,” he assured him. “ _Farvel_.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo added as the driver returned to his seat, nodding once at Bilbo before flicking the reins and driving off.

Once he was gone, Bilbo turned to face Thorin once more, his smile growing wider as he broke into a laugh. “I cannot believe you are here,” he said.

“It is very wonderful to see you,” Thorin replied, resisting the urge to kiss him then and there.

“It shall just be you and me for this next week,” Bilbo said. “I have given my housekeeper some time off, though that means we shall have to make our own meals. Fortunately, I am a rather good cook.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Thorin said, nodding. “I do vividly remember you once emptying your larders for a large group of rowdy Dwarves, and that the food was quite good.”

Bilbo laughed again, and shook his head. “Come, let’s go inside,” he said, going over to the trunk and taking one end, motioning for Thorin to take the other. “It has gotten rather cold.”

Thorin complied, helping Bilbo carry the trunk up the steps and through the door. They set it down in the main entryway, and as Thorin straightened and looked around he had an odd feeling, as if he was stepping back into Bag End.

It wasn’t the exact same, of course, as this was an actual house and not a Hobbit hole. But it very much had the same feeling—brightly coloured rugs on the floor, books stacked against the walls, and random pieces of paper on all the tables. Turning to Bilbo, he grinned.

“I thought you said you had a maid,” he said.

Bilbo glowered at him. “My house is very clean, thank you,” he argued. “And it’s organized. I know precisely where everything is.”

“It reminds me very much of Bag End,” Thorin pointed out, looking around at the various paintings and maps hanging on the walls. “I should have liked to go back there one day, you know.”

“That would have been nice,” Bilbo said with a small smile. “But you are here now, even though this is not Bag End. It shall have to be enough.”

Thorin smiled in return. “It is,” he said, leaning in to gently kiss Bilbo’s forehead. “You should take me on a tour.”

“Of course,” Bilbo agreed, taking a step backward and dramatically gesturing towards one of the doorways that branched out from the entryway. “If you will follow me, my Lord, into the front parlour.”

Thorin laughed, trailing after Bilbo as he backed into the parlour, his eyes focused on Thorin the entire time as a wide smile spread across his face.

◊◊◊

Bilbo woke up in the early hours of the morning to a dim, grey light filtering into the room. The quiet rap of raindrops against glass could be heard, and as he turned to face the window he could see a light rain falling, covering the window in droplets that rolled down in long rivulets. The air in the room was bitterly cold and Bilbo shivered, trying to bury himself deeper under the pile of blankets covering his body.

Beside him, Thorin mumbled something incoherent and rolled over onto his stomach, wrapping his arms around a pillow. Bilbo turned to face him, a slight smile on his face. He watched him sleep for several minutes before forcing himself to get out of bed, quickly pulling on a housecoat. He hurried over to the fireplace, his feet cold on the bare floor, and restarted the fire as quietly as he could, hovering nearby as the flames roared to life. When he turned back to face the bed, Thorin was awake, blinking blearily at Bilbo.

“Good morning,” Bilbo said, and Thorin smiled.

“Good morning,” he replied, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “It’s so cold in here...”

“That’s why I restarted the fire,” Bilbo said, crawling back up onto the bed and laying down beside Thorin. “It is winter.”

Thorin’s eyes cracked open as he glared at Bilbo. “You do not have to be so sarcastic,” he said.

Bilbo laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, before sitting up again. “Come, get up. I am going to make breakfast.”

“I will be down in a moment,” Thorin said, humming unhappily about the prospect of moving.

“If you are not downstairs in ten minutes, I am coming back,” Bilbo threatened, climbing off the bed and walking over to the door, quickly glancing back at Thorin before disappearing down the hallway.

◊◊◊

Thorin woke up to Bilbo hovering above him, a scowl on his face. He blinked, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“I fell back asleep,” he said, and Bilbo sighed.

“You did. An hour ago. But I decided to leave you alone while I cooked, as you appeared to be tired.”

“Sorry.”

“You had better be,” Bilbo said, like a parent berating their child. “My breakfast is going to be cold, and we only have a few hours before your driver returns.”

Thorin groaned. He had forgotten that he was leaving to return home that day. It was hard to believe that an entire week had passed—it felt like it had only been a few days.

“I do not want to leave,” he moaned, forcing himself to sit up.

“I do not want you to, either,” Bilbo said. “But unfortunately you must. You cannot stay here forever.”

“I know,” Thorin said with a sigh. “I simply wish I knew when I would see you again.”

Bilbo gave him a small smile. “Soon enough,” he promised, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now, come and eat. Your driver will be here in only three hours.”

◊◊◊

**2 Months Later**

Thorin laughed, watching as, ahead of him, Frerin flew through the trees, nearly standing in his saddle as he urged his horse to go faster. It was incredibly warm for March, and the ground was wet and covered in mud from recent rain. There had been no snow for weeks, and it appeared as if there wouldn’t be until winter came again. Frerin had been incredibly excited by the coming of spring, and had convinced Thorin to go riding with him.

He had, of course, soon turned the affair into a race, disappearing into the nearby forest and goading Thorin to follow him. He still had a lead, but Thorin was catching up to him quickly and could soon overtake him.

“Where is the finish?” Thorin called, leaning forward in an attempt to make his horse run faster.

“The fence near the field!” Frerin cried, turning to look back at his brother for a split second, a wide smile on his face. “We’re almost there!”

Thorin kicked in his heels. He and Frerin had always been staunch competitors against each other, always wanting to see who was the best at this or who could do that the fastest. They were very good competition—they often tied, and if one did win the other was often close behind. This, however, meant that they were constantly trying to prove themselves to be better, particularly when they were young.

As the fence came into view, Thorin realised he most likely wasn’t going to win this one. If the finish had been only a bit further he might have had a chance, but Frerin’s head start had been too great. Still, he attempted to quicken his pace one last time before Frerin passed the fence, slowing down only after he had passed it as well.

“Ha!” Frerin yelled, lifting his hands above his head in victory. “I knew I would win.”

“That is because you are cheating,” Thorin pointed out, glowering at his brother. “Let us do something else, more fairly.”

Frerin looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Alright,” he agreed. “I will go home around the forest, and you will go home through the thickest part, along the river. Let’s see who will get there the fastest.”

Thorin nodded in agreement, looking down to where the river entered the forest, several metres down. “I will go over to the river, near the tree line, and when I am there and ready we will start,” he said.

“Let’s do it,” Frerin said, and watched as Thorin galloped off to the river. When he arrived and was in position, he lifted one arm and Frerin nodded, preparing himself.

“Go!” Thorin cried, and they were gone, Frerin riding off along the edge of the forest and Thorin crashing through it.

The way around the forest was longer, but there were few obstacles and so Frerin could go faster, while Thorin had to constantly slow down so that he did not fall. He stayed as close to the riverbank as possible, speeding up when there were fewer obstacles, wishing to move as fast as possible.

As he came upon a clearing, with no trees standing anywhere near the river, he increased his speed even more. The forest blurred as he galloped by, clumps of mud flying up under his horse’s hooves.

Then he was in the air, the river’s bank gone underneath him. It had grown soft from the rain and melting snow, and had given out under the weight of his horse, throwing them both into the river. Thorin hit the icy cold water with a splash, gasping for air and sucking in a mouthful of water instead. As the strong current began to pull him downstream, his head was knocked into a large rock jutting out of the water. He passed out less than a second later.

◊◊◊

They found his body nearly five hours later, washed ashore several hundred metres downstream from where he had fallen in. The horse survived, having managed to climb out of the river and run home, where Frerin had found him. Most of the forest had been searched before a farmer found Thorin’s body lying alongside the river bank, sopping wet and with a large gash on the back of his head.

◊◊◊

Bilbo stood looking down on his desk, flipping idly through a sketchbook. A newspaper sat on a nearby table, open to a page with a headline proclaiming the death of a count’s son two days ago. Bilbo had hardly left his studio since he had read the article earlier that morning, locking himself away and refusing to speak to Ane when she came to the door with tea and food. His tears had subsided long ago, though his eyes were still puffy and red, and had been replaced by a numb shock.

He had known that this was going to happen. It seemed that, no matter the circumstances, death appeared to finds its way into their lives, and one of them ended up dying only months or even days after they met again. Bilbo should not have been so surprised, and he wasn’t—not entirely. He had been expecting it to happen, and had been more saddened by the news than shocked, though he had still tried to believe that Thorin wasn’t actually dead.

Bilbo wondered, for a moment, if God was punishing him. He knew that it was sinful to love another man, but if that was what he was being punished for, why did God keep allowing them to meet, again and again and again?

Perhaps it wasn’t God, but rather some other power, like the Valar or the old Celtic gods, that was punishing them and allowing them to suffer so. Bilbo thought back to what Thorin had said, over three months ago—that this was Hell. An eternal cycle of losing the one you love most, over and over. It seemed, in that moment, to be a description more accurate than that of a pit of fire and brimstone that he had been taught in church. Bilbo felt that an eternity of burning would be more desirable than one he was being forced to suffer through.

Sighing, he slowly turned the sketchbook’s page, running his fingers over the charcoal drawings that covered the sheets. Most were quick sketches of random people he had seen on the street, or of a scene that he had found pleasant, but the later pages were littered with drawings of Thorin. The majority had been drawn during Thorin’s visit, already two months ago, and Bilbo gently traced the scratchy lines that made up his head and upper body. Some were more finished than others, and one had a complete background—it was of Thorin in the parlour, reading a book in front of the window while tiny snowflakes fell outside.

Bilbo sniffed, scrunching up his nose, and promptly shut the book. He grabbed the newspaper from where it still sat on the table, crumpling it up into a ball and tossing it onto the floor. An armchair sat in the corner of the room, and he sat down in it, gazing out a nearby window to where spring was finally awakening. The snow had all melted, and the sun was shining down on the street, where a group of children played. Their laughter rang up to Bilbo’s ears and, despite himself, he smiled.

It was odd, he thought, for such a beautiful world to have such terrible things in it. And if this truly was Hell, it was a strange sort of Hell, for there was always the possibility for happiness, even though darkness continued to thrive. Though he felt terrible at that moment, he knew it would not last forever. Grief was painful and overwhelming, especially in the beginning, but it eventually dulled. If this was, in actuality, a punishment from God for loving Thorin, Bilbo did not see how it would work—the more he lost him, and the more he suffered, the more Bilbo loved him. While it was painful to lose Thorin, Bilbo now knew he would see him again, even though they would likely be separated shortly after. But he had lived for over fifty years after losing Thorin, and he could do it again if he had to.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Bilbo looked up at the sky, where large white clouds slowly drifted across an expanse of blue. If this was to be his eternity, he knew it would not be easy, but even if he did not always have Thorin beside him, he would not let it destroy him. He would carry on, as he always had, and he would somehow make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Christian - Thorin  
> Jakob - Bilbo  
> Lillian - Dís  
> Oskar - Frerin  
> Agathe - Thorin's mother  
> Bjarnsen - Balin
> 
> Sorry this took so long to write. I've been really busy this past month with school and other commitments, so I couldn't really find the time to write. Hopefully I'll have more time soon with winter break, so I'll try and get the next one out sooner.


	4. The Hole in the Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romania, 1989  
> 7th Life  
>  _The factory worker and the doctor_

It was dark when Toma Izbaşa arrived home, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and shrugging his coat off his shoulders. He often left work late—the hospital he worked at was small and under-staffed, so there were usually few doctors on duty. Most days he worked long shifts, sometimes arriving before the sun rose and leaving after it set, but there was little he could do.

Removing his shoes and placing them by the door, Toma yawned and stretched tiredly as he made his way to the kitchen. He was starving, having not eaten anything in several hours, and grabbed a large chunk of bread with some butter before moving on to the living room, careful to turn off any lights he had turned on.

The candles in the living room slowly flickered to life as he lit them, blowing the match out before setting it down in an ash tray. He chewed lazily on the bread for a moment, listening to the quiet sound of the wind, before turning and opening a nearby cabinet. He rummaged through it for a minute or so, the piece of bread hanging from his mouth, before pulling out a small radio made of bright orange plastic. Sitting down on the couch and setting the radio in front of him, he turned it on and, lengthening the antenna, carefully adjusted it until the static was replaced by clear voices.

It was one of the Romanian government’s official stations, Toma realized, giving an update about tomorrow’s weather. He frowned, and began fiddling with the dial, watching as the station number changed and various voices flitted through the speaker, not all of them Romanian.

There had been several patients at the hospital that evening who had seemed anxious about something, whispering to each other under their breath. Toma hadn’t been able to catch anything they had said, and they had been reluctant to speak with him about it. It appeared to be something big, however, as the trend continued for the rest of the night with patients muttering to each other and giving the entire hospital an uneasy air.

If it was something that was creating that much tension, Toma knew that the official state media most likely wouldn’t be reporting it. They rarely did if they felt it might disrupt the general populace, though word had gotten out somehow, which led Toma to suspect the various Western radio stations that were broadcast throughout Romania.

There were several of them that Romanians could tune into, listening to news stories that were censored by the government. However, they were difficult to find and one had to be careful when doing so, as the state had recently begun cracking down on those illegal stations and punishing those who listened to them.

It had been over forty years since communism came to the country, and over twenty since Nicolae Ceauşescu became leader of the Socialist Republic of Romania. Things had appeared well at first, with Ceauşescu seeming to be more lenient than his predecessor, Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej. However, in recent year things had taken a turn for the worse. It seemed as if everything was slowly becoming rationed—first food in 1984, then petroleum and electricity in 1985. Buses now used methane propulsion, while taxis had been converted to burn methanol. Each household was restricted to 20 kWh of electricity per month, and anything over that was taxed. In addition, at night only one in five streetlights was turned on and for those with televisions there was now only one channel which ran for just two hours a day. Heating and gas had also been turned off, and a curfew was put in place on Sundays—every day, the shops had to be closed by 5:30pm.

It was obvious that the people were becoming unhappy. Two years ago a riot had erupted in Braşov, a city in Transylvania, during which a large group of factory workers had stormed the city’s Communist headquarters. There had only been a few small demonstrations since then, but the discontent could be heard in how people whispered quietly to each other. From what Toma had heard on Western radio, it appeared as if the rest of the world believed the reign of communism in Romania would soon reach its end.

Fiddling with the dials, Toma carefully tuned the radio until the sound of a reporter’s voice drifted out, loud and clear. He was speaking Romanian, but as Toma listened it became obvious that this station wasn’t government-approved. He turned the volume down, almost instinctively, until it was nearly inaudible.

“...believed to have been started by a group of ethnic Hungarians protesting the eviction of Pastor László Tőkés by the Romanian government,” the reporter was saying. “The government alleges that Tőkés was inciting ethnic hatred with his statements on Hungarian television this past July criticizing Ceauşescu’s systematization program and claiming that Romanians did not know their human rights. The protestors formed a barrier around Tőkés’s home in an attempt to stop his forced eviction, and police and Securitate officers soon arrived. However, the protest spread to other parts of the city, with the original cause quickly becoming irrelevant.”

Toma’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward, tightly clutching the radio in his hand. Protests? In Romania?

The reporter continued, “There are reports that some protestors attempted to burn down a Communist Party building, though they were unsuccessful. In order to try and control the riots, the Securitate attacked the protestors with tear gas and water jets, and police officers beat up and arrested others. The protests had died down by 9pm, but resumed the following day. The military was sent in an attempt to get the riots under control, though they failed and the streets erupted into chaos, and so TAB armoured personnel carriers and tanks were brought in. That night there were shootings throughout Timişoara, and tanks, TABs, and trucks blocked access to the city.”

Toma paused. The protests were taking place in Timişoara? It was one of the country’s larger cities, located in the west, over 550 kilometres from Bucharest. He frowned, running his hand through his already-messy hair.

“The next day, December 18th, Mayor Petre Moţ declared martial law, putting a curfew in place and prohibiting people from going about in groups larger than two. It is believed that a large group of protesters were fired upon, and some were killed, though this has not been confirmed. Yesterday, many factory workers in Timişoara ceased work, and today they entered the city and occupied Piaţa Operei alongside 100,000 others protestors.

“Ceauşescu is planned to give a speech tomorrow morning in Bucharest’s Piaţa Palatului, and as of yet there has been no new news from Timişoara...”

A door down the hall opened, and Toma quickly turned the radio off as his wife walked into the room, yawning and blinking tiredly.

“Did you just get home?” she asked, and Toma nodded.

“About ten minutes ago,” he explained. “There were several patients that needed to be taken care of, otherwise I would have come home earlier.”

She nodded in understanding, leaning against the wall. “Are you coming to bed soon?” she asked.

“ _Da_ ,” Toma answered, standing and grabbing the radio.

“Were you listening to one of those American stations again?” she asked, frowning slightly.

Toma shook his head. “Of course not, Ştefania,” he lied. “I know you do not like it when I do.”

Ştefania narrowed her eyes. “You are a very bad liar, _iubita mea_ ,” she said. “You can listen to whatever you like, so long as you are careful. I don’t need you getting arrested.”

“I will not get arrested,” Toma assured her, returning the radio to its cabinet. “Now, let’s go to bed. It’s late, and you must wake up early tomorrow.”

◊◊◊

Cosmin Lăzărescu stared blearily at the ceiling above him, trying in vain to force himself to get out of bed. It was nearly 6 o’clock in the morning, and he would soon have to be at work, but the room was so bitterly cold and his bed so comfortably warm. His small apartment had been without heat all winter, and though Cosmin had a small space heater he rarely used it as it took up too much electricity. The few times it was used, he placed it in his mother’s room so that she, at least, could have some warmth.

Sighing, Cosmin threw back his blankets and sat up, immediately grabbing a nearby sweater and pulling it over his head. He shivered, his arms wrapped around himself as he stood up and wandered out into the hallway. His mother was already awake, shuffling slowly about the kitchen as she prepared a small breakfast of porridge.

“Mami, what are you doing out of bed?” Cosmin asked, hurrying to his mother’s side. “I could have made breakfast for you.”

His mother scoffed. “I am not made of glass, Cosmin,” she argued, waving him away. “I can make my own breakfast and besides, you must get ready for work.”

Cosmin frowned. “I don’t mind looking after you,” he said.

“Yes, but you don’t have to,” his mother insisted. “I can look after myself, _fiul mea_. Now go get ready for work, or you’ll be late.”

“Would you like me to turn on the heater in your room?” he asked. “It’s supposed to be very cold today.”

His mother shook her head. “I can turn it on myself, if I need to,” she said. “So go get dressed, before I do it for you like I used to when you were a child.”

Cosmin sighed and shook his head, going back down the hallway towards the bathroom. It had been nearly a year and a half since his mother’s diagnosis, and her health had slowly been deteriorating since. The doctors had said there was little that could be done for her, and she had quickly refused their offer to be put in hospice care, saying she would rather die at home with her son. Cosmin had tried to convince her to go, saying she would be better cared for there, but she had still refused.

Frowning at himself in the mirror, he listened as his mother hobbled down the hallway back to her room. Over the past few weeks her condition had drastically declined, and after a visit to the hospital the doctor had informed him that she only had a month or two left to live. Still, his mother insisted on remaining as independent as possible, not wanting to be a burden on her son in any way.

Turning on the tap, Cosmin let a small stream of cold water trickle out, gathering it in his hands and splashing it over his face. He got ready quickly, dragging a comb through his hair in an attempt to make his unruly curls somewhat neater, and pulled on his cleanest pair of jeans. Outside, frost clung to the windows and a light dusting of snow covered the ground, so he made sure to wear a warm pair of woolen socks and a thick sweater over top of his t-shirt.

“I’m leaving now, Mami,” Cosmin said, sticking his head through the door of his mother’s bedroom as he shrugged on his coat, zipping it up to his chin.

“You better hurry, before you’re late,” his mother advised, smirking, and Cosmin nodded.

“I’ll see you later,” he told her. “ _Te iubesc_.”

“I love you, too,” his mother replied as hurried to the front door, quickly pulling on his boots before stepping out into the hallway. They lived on the third floor of a large apartment building, and Cosmin practically ran down the stairs to the lobby. The bus that took him to his work stopped across the street from the building, and he could see it rumbling up the road as he rushed out onto the sidewalk. Thankfully there were few cars so Cosmin was able to quickly hurry across the street, arriving at the stop just as the bus did.

It was already stuffed full of people when he climbed on board, and so he had to stand, pressed up against the doors and holding onto the back of a seat to keep himself from falling over. His workplace was thankfully nearby, and he did not have to stay on the bus long. It had been nearly a decade since he began working at the factory, aged twenty, putting together parts for radios. It was easy work and payed relatively well, though Cosmin despised it. As a child he had wanted to be a writer, but socialist Romania didn’t need writers—it needed factory workers, so that’s what he had become instead.

The bus slowed to a stop, and Cosmin prepared to get off. Stepping back out onto the cold street, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and sniffed, hurrying along the frozen sidewalk towards the factory.

◊◊◊

It was Toma’s day off, but he still left home early. His friend Mihail had called that morning, asking if he would be going to Piaţa Palatului to hear Ceauşescu’s speech on the events in Timişoara. Toma had said he would, and soon after Ştefania had left he had pulled on his coat and boots, heading out to catch the bus.

There was already a crowd gathered at the square when Toma arrived, including a large group of people near the front holding flags and signs praising Ceauşescu and his regime. There was a definite air of tension in the crowd, with everyone murmuring to each other about what was going to happen and what Ceauşescu was going to say. Pushing his way through the throngs of people, Toma slowly made his way to the middle of the square, hoping for a better view of the balcony where Ceauşescu would be giving his speech. It appeared as if the entire thing would be televised, with crew from the country’s one television station setting up their cameras at various points around the plaza.  

As the minutes passed more people poured onto the square, until the entire area was packed and there was barely enough room to move. It was obvious, as time ticked by, that people were becoming anxious for the speech to start. The events at Timişoara had become widely known, and they wanted to know what their leader would say about them—they knew what Westerners thought, but not what Ceauşescu thought.

Finally, the mayor of Bucharest, Barbu Petrescu, appeared on the balcony, speaking into the microphone and addressing the large gathered crowd, “Dear Comrades,” he began, pausing as people clapped and chanted. “Please allow me to speak from my heart as we welcome, to talk at this large popular meeting in the capital of the working people, the much beloved and esteemed leader of the Communist Party and our country—a man of eminent revolutionary patriotism, who over six decades has worked hard to make our country prosperous, free, and independent as Socialist Romania: the General Secretary of the Party, President of the Republic, our Comrade, Nicolae Ceauşescu.”

The large group of men with signs and flags at the front of the crowd began to clap and cheer, calling out Ceauşescu’s name, while the people around Toma remained largely silent. As Ceauşescu walked onto the balcony, replacing Petrescu at the podium, Toma could hear several people muttering under their breath and to those beside them, and though he didn’t understand exactly what they were saying he understood the contempt in their voices.

Arriving at the podium, Ceauşescu waved to the crowd, calling for their silence. “Dear Comrades and friends,” he began, the group at the front slowly quieting. “Citizens of the capital of Socialist Romania. First, I desire to give you, the participants of this great popular meeting, and to all residents of the Bucharest municipality, a warm greeting, along with the best wishes for success in all fields!”

The men at the front erupted into cheers once again, and Toma frowned; it was becoming more and more obvious that they were planted there by the government, most likely threatened to appear supportive of Ceauşescu in order to maintain the appearance that the dictator still had some control and popularity. Very few of the other people in attendance even clapped, most watching the leader with angry and anxious looks on their faces. There was obvious unrest within the crowd, and many people appeared agitated.

Ceauşescu continued, “I want also to give thanks to the initiators and organizers of this great event in Bucharest—”

Screams and shouts erupted from somewhere behind Toma, people jeering loudly and hurling insults at Ceauşescu. Others began to boo and whistle, the anger spreading throughout the crowd in seconds. Fists raised up into the air as the people mocked their leader, who looked genuinely confused and distressed by the sudden acts of dissent. Toma couldn’t help but laugh, especially when Ceauşescu raised his hand in an attempt to placate the crowd, an act which simply caused them to scream louder.

Over the cries of the people, Toma could hear Ceauşescu talking to someone before turning back to the microphone, repeatedly calling “ _Hallo_ ” in an attempt to grab the crowd’s attention. His wife, Elena, leaned over the balcony, yelling for silence as the jeers and boos continued. A large group near the planted supporters began chanting “Ti-mi-şoa-ra”, and the rest of the spectators soon joined in until the entire square was filled with the sounds of chanting, Ceauşescu still struggling to regain control.

“Comrades!” he called, his hands tightly gripping the sides of the podium. “Stay quiet! Comrades!”

Securitate officers had begun circling the crowd, trying to calm the spectators and obviously threatening the planted men at the front. It was unlike anything Toma had ever seen. All his life, he had been taught to be respectful towards the leader of their country—that he was a great man who had saved Romania. Reactions like this had been unthinkable for all of Ceauşescu’s reign, but as the people became more and more unhappy with his regime they became less and less compliant.

And now a large group was gathered in the centre of Bucharest, hurling insults and screaming at Nicolae Ceauşescu, esteemed leader of Socialist Romania. Toma grinned widely and lifted his fist into the air, joining into the chanting that had grown louder all around him.

◊◊◊

Cosmin stood staring up at the confused face of Nicolae Ceauşescu as he tried, once again, to quiet the screaming crowd in front of him. Cosmin turned, looking with wide eyes at the people that surrounded him as they booed and hurled insults at Ceauşescu.

“What do we do?” he asked the person beside him, a man he worked with named Dumitru, nearly yelling in order to make his voice heard.

Dumitru frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted, looking nervously at the Securitate officers standing atop the balcony.

The other people that stood around them seemed equally confused and anxious, glancing from Ceauşescu to the banners and flags in their hands to the other spectators behind them, their fists raised angrily in the air as they screamed and jeered. Cosmin wondered what would happen if he threw down the flag in his hands and joined the crowd, yelling insults at the powerful man standing less than forty metres away from him.

Furrowing his eyebrows together, he searched for the Party officials hiding in the crowd. He knew they were there, as one of them had talked to them as they arrived at the square before disappearing into the mass of people quickly filling up the plaza. He could not see any now, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t watching them, ready to act in case they grew disobedient.

Cosmin sighed, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He really just wanted to go home, and if he had a choice, he would be as far away from all of this as possible. But, unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice—it had been announced, before his shift that morning had even started, that all present workers would be brought to Piaţa Palatului to support Ceauşescu as he gave his speech, and that those who did not comply would be fired.

Cosmin needed this job; he couldn’t afford to be fired. He barely made enough to keep him and his mother alive, especially with the rations, and if he lost that income it could be months before he found another job. So he had grudgingly obeyed, climbing onto the bus with his coworkers and taking the flag handed to him when they arrived at the square.

Nearby, a group of men from a local power plant began chanting “Ti-mi-şoa-ra”, and the rest of the crowd soon joined in. Cosmin turned to watch them, his mouth drawn into a tight line. The plant workers had arrived a few minutes after them—it seemed as if the Party was trying to gather as many workers as possible in an attempt to make it appear as if Ceauşescu was still popular and well-liked. Already Cosmin could see what appeared to be a Securitate officer heading towards them, and he frowned. Several of his coworkers had picked up the chant, as well, and Cosmin tightened his grip on the flag, unsure of what to do.

“Stay quiet!” the man yelled, holding his arms wide as he walked near the front of the crowd, obviously addressing the workers. “If you do not comply, you will be fired!”

Several people quieted after that, but many continued chanting and yelling, some proclaiming that they were no longer going to listen to a government that was trying to starve its people. Up on the balcony, Ceauşescu continued in his attempts to regain some control over the crowd, yelling into the microphone as the Party officials beside him looked on nervously.

Finally, as the screams slowly started to die down, most likely due to the influence of hidden Securitate officers, he was able to continue his speech, though he still had to yell as people continued to refuse to be compliant.

“One more time!” he cried, his hands bracing himself against the podium as he leaned into the microphone. “I desire to emphasize that we have to demonstrate with all our power, force, and unity for the defence of the independence, integrity, and sovereignty of Romania.”

Beside him, the Party officials began to clap and the workers surrounding Cosmin broke out into cheers, urged on by the Securitate officials looming nearby. Cosmin quickly joined in, waving the flag above his head as he cried Ceauşescu’s name, though his brow was creased in uncertainty.

Ceauşescu went on to describe how workers’ salaries and students’ scholarships would be raised starting on the 1st of January, all in an obvious attempt to bring the spectators back to his side. It took several more minutes for him to mention the events at Timişoara, talking about how it was an assault on the integrity and sovereignty of Romania—an attempt to subject the country to foreign domination.

“Therefore,” Ceauşescu said, his hands flying wildly in the air as he spoke. “We must defend, with all our forces, the integrity and independence of Romania!”

His words were met with another raucous round of cheers and applause, and flags waved as people began chanting his name. Cosmin followed along so as not to attract attention to himself, but he did not smile. This was the same as every other lie-filled speech he had been fed throughout his life, talking about protecting Romania’s independence and the successes of socialism, while just barely touching on the real issues that were plaguing the country.

Ceauşescu continued, “I think there are many among you who remember the great event from 1968 where Romania’s independence was successfully defended. Firmness, the unity of our people, these have provided the independence and the further building of socialism in Romania! And now we must act in complete unity against anyone who tries to overthrow our strength. They are acting in the service of various imperialist circles and intelligence services to once again divide Romania in order to enslave our people!”

Cosmin’s frown deepened—this speech was nothing but a bunch of lies put together in an attempt to scare the Romanian people into submission. It was true that the protest in Timişoara had been started by ethnic Hungarians, but everyone could see that it had quickly evolved into something else. It was now about the Romanians, upset with their government and how badly it was treating them. But Ceauşescu and the Communist Party would never acknowledge that. To them, it was to be seen as a foreign threat against Romania’s sovereignty.

“You know what our ancestors have done and said,” Ceauşescu called. “’Better to die in battle, in full glory, than to once again be slaves on our ancient ground.’ And we must fight, to live freely and independently!”

There were more claps and cheers, almost entirely from the workers surrounding Cosmin. He couldn’t see very well, but it appeared as if the rest of the crowd was, for the most part, silent, watching as Ceauşescu attempted to instill pride in the Socialist Republic of Romania into their hearts.

As he continued with his speech, talking of how Romania was a worker’s democracy and how they must unite to protect the independence of their nation, Cosmin watched with a slight frown on his face, cheering and waving his flag when the others clapped but doing nothing else. The applause grew louder as the speech slowly wound down, and Cosmin sighed in relief at the knowledge that soon they would be brought back to the factory, where he would be able to continue with his work day before returning home.

No sooner had he thought that than the sound of a large commotion came from the side of the crowd, and Cosmin spun to see what was happening just as a loud bang went off. He ducked instinctively, dropping his flag in order to throw his hands up over his head. People began screaming, running away from the source of the noise. Before Cosmin could even recover or process what had happened, he was being carried away by the crowd, tripping over his own feet and the discarded banners and flags of the other workers.

Straightening, he glanced up at the balcony to see that Ceauşescu was gone, most likely swept inside. Several Securitate officers stood in his place, megaphones in their hands. One of them was speaking, but Cosmin couldn’t make out what he was saying over the screams of the crowd still attempting to disperse.

Someone behind him began pushing his back, urging him to move faster, and Cosmin scowled, turning to glare at them and shaking their hands off of him. He wasn’t even sure what that noise had been—it had sounded like a gunshot, but who had fired it, and at what? He cursed silently under his breath, craning his neck in an attempt to see what was happening. The majority of people seemed to be heading for the streets, and he could see several Securitate officers lining the square, attempting to calm the people, with no success.

“It’s the Securitate!” someone ahead of Cosmin was yelling, addressing the people around him. “They’re firing at us! The government is attacking its own people!”

Someone else, now speaking to the Securitate officers lining the plaza, began announcing that it was a revolution—that this was the Romanian people finally fighting back against their government and Ceauşescu.

“ _Jos dictatorul!_ ” a woman cried, throwing her fist up into the air.

“ _Jos dictatorul!_ ” several other people replied, and Cosmin glanced around nervously, his eyes darting from the officers to the protestors with their fists raised and their voices echoing across the square.

“ _Jos dictatorul! Jos dictatorul! Jos dictatorul!_ ”

Someone appeared beside him, grabbing his wrist and thrusting his hand into the air. Cosmin looked to see Dumitru smiling down at him as he shouted with the others, urging him to do the same.

“ _Jos dictatorul! Jos dictatorul!_ ”

Cosmin took in a deep breath before opening his mouth and joining in with the chant.

“ _Jos dictatorul!_ ”

He thought of his mother sitting alone in their freezing apartment, eating stale bread and watery soup. Of all the ways they had been suffering for the past years—all the injustices they had endured.

“ _Jos dictatorul!_ ”

_Down with the dictator._

◊◊◊

The plaza was in chaos. All around Toma was a sea of people, shouting and chanting slogans so mixed together he could barely understand what they were saying. There were several Securitate officers scattered around the outskirts of the square, trying to get the crowd back under control but obviously failing. Everyone seemed to be heading for the streets, moving together as one large mass and carrying the others with them.

Toma frowned, stretching to see over the heads of those around him. There was an anticipatory feeling in the air, and as they neared the streets everyone seemed to become more and more excited. Their screams grew louder, the chants spreading until it sounded like the entire crowd was shouting them at the top of their lungs.

“ _Moarte criminalului!_ ” someone screamed, their cry soon picked up by the others around them. A wide grin spread across Toma’s face and, cupping his hands around his mouth, he joined in the chanting, yelling as loudly as he could.

In most circumstances, he would never have dreamed of going against the government in such an open way. And in most circumstances, it would have been much too dangerous—those who spoke up against the government usually found themselves arrested soon afterwards. As such, very few people voiced their opinions loudly and openly, instead keeping to themselves. It was what Toma had done all his life.

But he refused to do so now. The Romanian people were finally acting, showing their dictatorial leader that they had had enough. Toma’s smile widened and he marched alongside the crowd, kicking aside the portraits of Ceauşescu that had been abandoned by the planted supporters.

He was nearing the edge of the plaza when the cheers suddenly faltered, cut off by the loud bang of a gunshot. The shouts once more turned to screams of terror and people began running, shoving those in front of them and trying to escape to the more open streets. Toma’s smile dropped from his face, his hands falling to his sides as he quickened his pace so as not to get trampled. The people around him were growing frantic, and their panic only grew when another shot was fired.

Toma looked over his shoulder in an attempt to see where the shot had come from, just as someone barrelled into him from the side. They lost their balance and stumbled, nearly falling in front of him before he managed to grab hold of their elbow, steadying them.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still gripping their elbow and pulling them along beside him.

“Yes, I’m fine,” the person, a man, answered, obviously disgruntled as he attempted to shake Toma’s hand off of him. He began to walk away, but turned to glower at Toma and paused quite suddenly, causing several people to walk into him and, once again, throw him off balance.

“Careful!” Thorin called, darting forward and grabbing Bilbo by the arm, quickly stabilizing him. Bilbo stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open as if he was searching for something to say.

Thorin grinned, his grip tight on Bilbo’s wrist as they were carried off the plaza and onto a large, wide street, lined with tall buildings and filled with people. “Hello,” he greeted, laughing despite the chaos around them. Up ahead, people had begun chanting again, their cries permeating the air even as more gunshots rang out from behind.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his voice breathy as a smile spread across his face. “We always seem to meet at the most in—”

He was cut off by the sound of another shot going off, this time much closer. It sounded as if it had come from above, and Thorin looked up, scanning the windows of the nearby buildings as the people around them began panicking again. Someone rammed into his back, jostling him and nearly sending him to his knees. As he struggled to regain his balance, his grip on Bilbo loosened and someone shoved them apart, trying to get further ahead and away from the source of the gunshot.

“Bilbo!” Thorin called, craning his neck to see over the crowd. Bilbo’s hand shot up into the air, reaching towards Thorin, but they were being pushed further and further apart. Thorin cursed loudly, shoving his way through the crowd to where he could still see Bilbo’s hand. Another gunshot sent everyone into a greater panic, and Thorin had no choice but to follow the crowd for fear of being trampled.

He looked back, trying to find Bilbo’s hand, but he had been swallowed up by the throng of people, and Thorin could see no sign of him.

◊◊◊

Bilbo sat crouched in the doorway of a building, his breath curling up in clouds as he panted heavily. His heart was racing and he closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the cold hard brick behind him. It had been three hours since the crowd gathered in Piaţa Palatului had broken out into chaos, and the protests had quickly spread throughout the city until all of Bucharest seemed to be engulfed in mayhem.

The large hoard leaving the square had eventually dispersed as people tried to escape the tanks and armoured personnel carriers deployed to confront them. Bilbo had tried in vain to find Thorin. As he wandered down the streets, he could hear the distant sounds of gunshots and an occasional pained scream. It was like he had stumbled into a warzone—like the entirety of Bucharest had been flipped on its head.

He had briefly debated going home. He wanted to check on his mother, and the streets had quickly become incredibly dangerous. From what he could tell, there were soldiers, Securitate officers, and even anti-terrorist troops prowling the city, armed and firing on protestors. Going home would have been the safest decision, but he knew he would never have been able to live with himself him he did that. Thorin was still out there, and until Bilbo saw him again he wouldn’t know if he was safe.

So he had stayed on the streets, running down one road and the next and following the crowds as they moved throughout the city. But after three hours he was exhausted and had slumped against the doorway, curling up on himself as the sounds of gunfire erupted down a nearby street.

Sighing, Bilbo opened his eyes and wiped his nose, looking up the street to where a group of protestors stood. Two of them had flags, the usual blue, yellow, and red stripes of the Romanian tricolour marred by a gaping hole ripped into the fabric where the Communist crest had once been. He had seen dozens of flags like that, and the sight of them always gave him just a bit more hope.

The protestors moved to the side of the road, and a TAB vehicle, a type of armoured personnel carrier, rolled by, covered in people. They weren’t soldiers, all dressed in civilian clothes, and one of them had a large flag with the Communist crest cut out, like those the protestors on the ground had. They must have somehow taken over the vehicle from the military, claiming it as their own and riding it around the streets of Bucharest. Bilbo stood as the TAB drove past, its riders shouting anti-Ceauşescu slogans.

“ _Noi suntem poporul!_ ” one man cried, both hands raised in the air.

“ _Jos cu dictatorul!_ ” the others replied, and Bilbo smiled.

_We are the people. Down with the dictator._

The TAB trundled down the street, disappearing from view as it rounded a corner. Bilbo remained standing even after it was gone, his hands shoved into his coat pockets as he wondered what he should do next. The group of protestors at the end of the street began to slowly make their way towards him, and he watched them, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. As they passed by, he stepped out from the doorway, walking alongside them.

“Where are you going?” he asked, looking at the person nearest him.

“Piaţa Universităţii,” the man replied. “It’s become the centre of all this.” He opened his arms wide, motioning to his companions; besides them, the street was abandoned.

Bilbo nodded. Piaţa Universităţii—it was only a short way from Piaţa Palatului, and the actual centre of Bucharest. He was unsurprised that everyone seemed to be gathering there. “Do you mind if I come along with you?” he asked, and the man shook his head.

“The more, the merrier,” he said, flashing Bilbo a wide smile. Unsure of how to react, Bilbo simply nodded, looking ahead at the desolate street in front of them.

◊◊◊

Thorin frowned, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the ground beneath his feet. He was sitting on the edge of a small dais atop of which stood a tall statue, in the middle of a tiny park. There were almost no trees, and the park was nearly bare save for the statue. There were hundreds of people around him—most were on the nearby street, but some had sought refuge in the park, sitting on the dais, like Thorin, or on the ground.

He paid them no mind, however, too absorbed in his own thoughts. It had been nearly five hours since the revolution, as it was being called, had started. Since then, there had been near constant shootings, and from what Thorin had heard dozens of people had already been killed.

After he and Bilbo had been separated, he had tried to find him for a long time, but the city was in chaos and there were tens of thousands of people flooding the streets. He had ended up near Piaţa Universităţii, where there seemed to be a large concentration of protestors, and, despite desperately wanting to find Bilbo, he had begun helping people with minor injuries. He was a doctor, after all, and couldn’t just stand by while there were injured people right in front of him.

He had just finished treating a woman with a large gash on her forearm, and his cold hands were still dripping water where he had tried to wash away the blood. A pile of salvaged cloths—makeshift bandages—sat beside him, along with several water bottles, most of them empty. He was trying his best to treat the injuries that he came across, but it was difficult to do on the street with so little supplies.

Sighing, he wiped his hands on the front of his coat, trying to dry them as best he could. In the hours since they had been separated, his thoughts had never strayed far from Bilbo. It was incredibly unlikely that they would find each other again, especially with the city in its current state, but Thorin still felt the need to go and at least look for him. He tried not to think about it, however, because if he did his mind would wander to places he didn’t want it to go.

There didn’t seem to be anyone nearby who needed help, and so Thorin stood, gathering the strips of cloth up in arms but leaving the empty water bottles. As he walked towards the street, he quickly checked his watch and looked up at the sky, frowning. It was nearly 5pm now, and twilight was beginning to set in. Soon, the sun would completely sink below the horizon. Thorin looked around, wondering what he should do, as if the street would give him answers.

It would most likely get even more dangerous as the sun set and it grew darker. The smartest thing for him to do would be to go home, and stay there until morning. Ştefania had left earlier that day for Târgovişte, a small city around eighty kilometres from Bucharest, to visit her sick father. News of what was happening in Bucharest had most likely spread to other parts of the country, despite the government’s best efforts to stop it. If Ştefania had heard the news, Thorin knew she would be driving herself mad with worry. The best thing for him to do would be to go home and call her.

And that’s what part of him wanted to do. The streets were still chaotic, the one he was on especially so. There were people everywhere, gunshots ringing out every five minutes and TABs rolling ominously past. It was like some sort of battleground—Thorin could hardly believe that this was Bucharest. He knew that the sooner he got off the streets, the safer he would be. He didn’t want to get hurt, and he certainly didn’t want to die—he’d done that several times before, and he had to say, he wasn’t a fan.

But the other part of him wanted to stay. He wanted to keep helping people, in any way he could, even if that just meant getting them to the nearest hospital. Leaving would almost feel like he was abandoning them, and as a doctor that was the last thing he wanted to do. And though he didn’t admit it, he knew that that part of him still clung to the hope of finding Bilbo, even if the rest of him accepted it as unlikely. There were too many people, too much chaos. But if he left and went home, he would make it impossible. If he stayed there would at least be a chance, however small.

Thorin stood on the side of the street for several minutes, unsure of what to do. Gunfire erupted in the distance, but he barely reacted—it was odd, he thought, how quickly one could get used to the near-constant sound of guns. It unnerved him a bit, and his frown deepened.

Somewhere nearby, people began screaming. A small group came running up the street, yelling at those they passed to get off the road and out of the way.

“There are two TABs and a tank coming, full of soldiers!” one of them yelled. “They’re shooting at people, get out of the way!”

Thorin looked up the street, to where a TAB could be seen coming around the corner. A soldier was perched on top of it, a gun in his hands, and Thorin could see a second TAB only a few metres behind it. He paled, and turned back towards the park. He wasn’t going to die, not there and not at the hands of a soldier.

The park had almost no trees, and Thorin hurried along the narrow path that cut through the park, quickening his pace at the sound of gunfire behind him. He was on the other side in a matter of seconds, right in front of the fence that separated the park from the National Theatre Bucharest. He ran alongside the fence, looking back across the greenery to the street. The TABs were moving slowly, followed by a tank covered in armed soldiers. They all had their firearms raised and pointed, with one shooting every few seconds.

Thorin lost sight of the soldiers as he disappeared behind a small grouping of trees, re-emerging in the parking lot of the InterContinental Hotel. There was a huge crowd gathered there, but most of them seemed to be trying to leave, running off in all directions. Several people shoved past Thorin, and he looked across the parking lot to the street, where the TABs had rolled to a stop. The soldiers had climbed down and were making their way into the crowd, fingers hovering above the triggers of their guns. One fired, and Thorin watched in horror as someone fell to the ground, a bullet lodged in their head.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen someone die. He was a doctor, and he’d seen patients die dozens of times before. It wasn’t even the first time he’d seen someone killed, not if he counted the times before he was Toma Izbaşa, when he’d fought in gruesome battles and had killed people himself. But this wasn’t war and this wasn’t a battle. That person had been defenceless, with no way to fight back, and now they were dead.

Thorin cursed quietly, looking away from where the person now lay, obscured by the dozens of people around them. He turned back towards the park, and was about to run down the path he had just come up when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Panic immediately gripped him, and he spun, one fist raised, only to come face to face with Bilbo.

He paused, his eyes going wide and his fist falling to his side. “Bilbo?” he said, as if he couldn’t possibly believe he was there, in front of him.

Bilbo smiled, despite the situation, and nodded. “It’s me,” he confirmed. “ _Dumnuzeule_ , I can’t believe I found you.”

“How?” Thorin asked, lifting his hand as if was about to touch Bilbo, but he stopped himself, letting his hand fall back down. “How did you find me?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Bilbo promised, as another shot rang out and someone screamed, loud and full of pain. “We need to leave.”

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, wanting desperately to find that person who had just been shot, but Bilbo had already turned away, one hand wrapped tightly around Thorin’s free arm. He hurried them through the crowd, across the parking lot alongside the hotel and out onto a side street. People were running along the road in both directions, all with a strong look of fear on their faces. Bilbo pulled him across the street and into a short alley, which lead them to a small forested area surrounded on all sides by buildings, most of them shops.

“Where are we going?” Thorin asked.

“Somewhere safer,” Bilbo answered, guiding them through the mass of trees and onto a small side street. There were fewer people there, and Bilbo finally loosened his grip on Thorin’s arm. As they wandered the maze of side streets, Thorin watched him carefully, a mix of emotions swirling around inside him.

He was so relieved that he was safe, and beyond happy that they had found each other, but there was a tinge of worry tainting his relief. What if they were separated again? What if something happened to one of them? What would he do then? He frowned, adjusting the supplies he still carried in his arms.

Bilbo glanced at him, amusement flickering across his face. “What is all that stuff?” he asked, gesturing to the pile of cloth Thorin was holding.

“Bandages,” he explained.

“For what?”

“Injured people,” Thorin said. “There’s been quite a few—it’s an absolute mess out here.”

Bilbo’s forehead creased in confusion. “Have you been going around bandaging people up?”

Thorin nodded. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “I work at a small hospital not too far from here.”

“Does that mean you live nearby?” Bilbo asked, a look of relief briefly crossing his face. “I don’t want to stay out once it gets dark, but I live all the way in Drumul Taberei and all public transport is shut down. It’d take me hours to get home.”

Thorin hesitated for a moment before answering. “It would probably only take about half an hour to get to my house from here,” he said, frowning. “But... I don’t know if I can leave.”

“What do you mean?” Bilbo asked, his expression quickly turning from one of relief to one of confusion and anxiety. “Thorin, we can’t stay out here. One of us will end up _dead_. That’s always how it happens, and I have a feeling that this time won’t be any different.”

“I know, I understand,” Thorin said, stopping and grabbing Bilbo’s hand, pulling him towards him. “But if I leave, I’ll feel as if I’m just abandoning all these people. I’m a doctor, Bilbo, I can’t just turn a blind eye to those suffering on the streets. The hospitals are no doubt overflowing with patients, and it’s probably impossible for anyone who’s not critically injured to get treatment. If I stay out here, I can help, even if it’s just by wrapping some bandages around a wound.”

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, obviously conflicted. After a few seconds he sighed, putting his free hand on Thorin’s cheek and lifting the other to gently kiss his knuckles. “I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.” He gave him a sad smile. “And _I_ don’t particularly want to die, either.”

Thorin laughed softly. “You won’t,” he promised.

“But that means you will,” Bilbo pointed out. “Please. Let’s just go somewhere safe, where they can’t hurt us. At least for now.”

Thorin didn’t say anything, his eyes slipping closed and his jaw tightening as he debated with himself. He knew Bilbo was right, but that didn’t stop the guilt from flooding into him at the thought of leaving and retreating back to his home.

“Please,” Bilbo repeated, his voice quiet. “Just give me this.”

Thorin slowly opened his eyes, and nodded.

◊◊◊

Thorin’s home was in a large apartment building situated between the neighbourhoods of Old Town and Dorobanţi. His apartment was slightly bigger than Bilbo’s, but not by much, and it had the same number of rooms. As they took off their coats and boats in the entryway, Bilbo looked around. The entryway lead directly into the living room and kitchen, and then onto a short, narrow hallway. It was a typical Bucharest apartment—small, with dingy white walls and few luxuries.

There were almost no decorations, save for a few photos on the walls and tables. As Thorin headed for the kitchen, rummaging around in the fridge for something to eat, Bilbo wandered around the apartment, looking closely at each photo. They mostly appeared to be of family members, and he recognized both of Thorin’s parents and his brother, Frerin, in one, as well as a much younger Thorin. He didn’t recognize anyone else, however.

As he bent to look at the photo sitting on the side table, he froze, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. It was a wedding photo, taken in grainy black and white, of Thorin and a woman Bilbo had never seen before. His heart skipped a beat, and he sucked in a sharp breath of air.

He stood, turning to face Thorin. He had stopped digging through the fridge and was at the counter now, cutting several thin slices of cheese, his back to Bilbo. 

“You’re married?”

Thorin paused, only for a moment, before cutting one final slice of cheese and setting the knife down. He didn’t look at Bilbo. “Yes,” he answered, his voice barely audible.

“You don’t wear a ring,” Bilbo pointed out, shuffling from foot to foot and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I usually don’t,” Thorin explained, his hands tightly gripping the edge of the counter. It was obvious they were both uncomfortable, but Bilbo felt as if he couldn’t just leave the topic be. “I’m afraid I’ll lose it.”

Bilbo looked back at the photo. Both Thorin and his wife looked happy, and she was quite beautiful, with fair hair and a radiant smile. “Where is she right now?”

“Târgovişte,” Thorin replied. “Visiting her family. She’ll be gone until next week.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ştefania.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What’s your name?” Bilbo asked. It was an odd question to be asking, but he felt it was one that needed to ask. “Your name here, in this life,” he clarified, though he knew that Thorin had understood what he meant.

“Toma Izbaşa,” Thorin said, finally turning to look at Bilbo. “And yours?”

“Cosmin Lăzărescu.”

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Bilbo turned away from the photo, taking in a deep breath.

“Do you love her?” he asked.

Thorin took a moment to reply. “You were married once, lifetimes ago,” he said, stepping away from the counter and slowly moving closer to where Bilbo stood. “I asked you, then, if you had loved your wife. You said you had, but not in the way you loved me.” He paused, glancing down at his hands, his forehead wrinkling. “I guess that’s how I feel about Ştefania. I love her—but not like I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone.”

He looked up, meeting Bilbo’s eyes. Bilbo stared back at him, and gave a small, nearly imperceptible, smile.

“We’ll never have anything easy, will we?” he asked, and Thorin laughed, quietly, shaking his head.

“No, I don’t think we will.”

◊◊◊

It was still dark when Thorin awoke the next morning to the soft beeping of his alarm clock. Groaning unhappily, he stuck one hand out from the warm comfort of his blankets, slamming the snooze button until the clock shut up. It was just barely past 6am, and Thorin let out a loud sigh. Sitting up, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes and yawned. The bedroom was freezing, and he shivered as he crawled out of bed, quickly grabbing a hoodie and pulling it over his head.

Though it was early, Thorin could hear Bilbo out in the living room, talking quietly to someone on the phone—his mother, most likely. He had called her the night before, assuring her the best he could that he was safe and that he would return home as soon as possible.

Thorin left the bedroom, walking down the hall to the kitchen where he went about silently preparing a pot of coffee. There was only a small amount left and he doled it out carefully—it would need to last for the next nine days, until the end of the month. Bilbo was sitting on the chair in the living room, wrapped up in a thick blanket. He watched Thorin as he moved about the kitchen, talking absently to his mother.

“I have to go now, Mami,” he said, leaning towards the side table where the phone’s base rested. “Yes, I promise. I love you.” Setting the phone down, he sighed, running his hands through his hair and over his face.

He looked tired, Thorin noticed. The night before, he had refused to sleep in the same bed that Thorin shared with his wife, instead insisting on taking the couch. It wasn’t a very comfortable piece of furniture, and so Thorin imagined he had spent much of the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

“Good morning,” he said, giving Bilbo a small smile. “How did you sleep?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Alright,” he replied. “There was gunfire until early in the morning, and that kept me awake for a long time.”

“It doesn’t seem to have picked up again yet,” Thorin said, digging two mugs from the cupboard as the coffee brewed. “Do you think it will?”

Bilbo thought for a moment, then nodded. “Probably,” he said. “It’s not over yet—the people won’t be satisfied if it ends like this.”

Thorin hummed his agreement. Going over to the cabinet in the living room, he pulled out his small radio, setting it down on the kitchen counter. “I wonder what the rest of the world thinks of all this,” he muttered, carefully scanning the stations for the correct one as voices flitted through the speaker.

“You can get Western stations on that?” Bilbo asked, standing and walking over to where Thorin stood, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

Thorin nodded. “I don’t listen to them very often,” he said. “It’s become much too dangerous.”

Voices crackled through the radio and Thorin paused, listening carefully.

“...the shootings continued well into the night, until all the protestors finally cleared the streets at around 3am,” the reporter was saying. “The police have set up barricades blocking access to Piaţa Universităţii and Piaţa Palatului, but already people have begun reappearing on the streets.”

They continued to talk, recounting the events of last night. Thorin and Bilbo listened silently, the only other sound the quiet bubbling of the coffee brewing.

“The number of casualties is unknown and difficult to determine at this moment,” the reporter continued. “Some have said that the number of fatalities is at least one hundred, with some saying less and others saying much more. What we do know is that there have been many deaths, and even more injuries. Romania’s revolution has certainly become a very bloody one.”

Bilbo let out a loud sigh, burying his face in his hands. “Are you going to be going back out onto the streets?” he asked, not bothering to look at Thorin.

Thorin didn’t say anything for a minute. “I... I want to,” he admitted. “But I need to go to the hospital first. It’s most likely closed, though—it’s only a small hospital, and horribly understaffed. I want to make sure though.”

Bilbo nodded. “And if it’s closed?”

“Then I’ll probably stay on the streets.”

“Thorin—”

“No,” Thorin interrupted, reaching over and turning the radio off with a frown. “I can’t just stay here and hide. I won’t be able to live with myself if I do.” He paused, his jaw clenched tightly. “I won’t let myself do that again.”

Bilbo lifted his head, staring at him for several seconds. He looked as if he wanted to argue, but stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut and nodding. “I’m going with you, then,” he decided.

Thorin grabbed Bilbo’s hands, holding them tightly in his own. Leaning over, he kissed him, so softly that their lips just barely touched. He almost expected Bilbo to put up a fight, to pull away and look sadly to where Thorin’s wedding picture sat. He didn’t, however, and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

◊◊◊

The hospital was closed when they arrived, its doors locked and the curtains drawn. Thorin sighed, jiggling the handle of the front door as if that might magically open it.

“Hospitals don’t normally close, do they?” Bilbo asked, his brows drawn together in confusion. “Aren’t there patients? Ones that have to stay at the hospital?”

Thorin shook his head. “We only have half a dozen beds,” he explained. “And not enough resources to look after any patients for more than two days. It’s more of a clinic, really; we have an emergency centre, but if someone who’s seriously injured comes in we send them to another hospital. We just don’t have the resources to properly care for any patients.” He frowned, stepping away from the door and crossing his arms over his chest.

“There was a hospital like this in my neighbourhood,” Bilbo said, looking up at the building’s weathered concrete and the cracked letters spelling out its name. “It closed several years ago, because it was falling apart and there was no money to fix it.” He glanced over at Thorin, who was staring intently at the hospital, as if it might reveal the answer to every question he had.

“Come on,” Bilbo said, his voice quiet. He grabbed Thorin’s elbow and pulled him away. “Staring at the place won’t solve any problems.” Thorin nodded, but didn’t say anything, walking beside Bilbo down the hospital’s small road and onto a larger street.

It was nearing 8:30am; the public transit system was still down, and so they had been forced to walk from Thorin’s apartment to the hospital. Bilbo had insisted they be careful, though neither of them had heard any gunshots since the night before, but they still had walked slowly. Though it was still early in the day, there already appeared to be hundreds of people crowding the streets, all heading towards the city centre.

As they walked, Bilbo looked around, his expression wary, as if he was ready for anything to go wrong at any moment. It was impossible to know if any fighting would break out—the day before, most of it had been centred around Piaţa Universităţii and Piaţa Palatului, several kilometres from Thorin’s neighbourhood. They wouldn’t even really know what was happening until they reached the city centre.

They walked in silence. They both knew what would most likely happen if fighting did break out, and people started getting hurt and killed. Neither of them had said it out loud, but they both knew—there was no need to say it.

Thorin closed his eyes and took in a deep of breath of air. It was cold, the same winter morning air that he had known all his life. It filled his lungs, and seemed to spread to every other part of him, through his arms and legs to the very tips of his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes, breathing out through his mouth, and watched the cloud of mist curl from his lips and up to the sky, where it disappeared.

◊◊◊

Bilbo felt as if he was being suffocated. There were hundreds of thousands of people gathered around him, all trying to fit into the small area in and around Piaţa Palatului. It was a few minutes past 10am, only a couple of hours after people had begun to reappear on the streets, and there was already an intense feeling of agitation in the crowd. As Bilbo looked around at those beside him, he noticed a wide range of emotions—some people appeared to be angry, while others were scared or nervous. Some even seemed to be filled with giddy anticipation, wanting to know what would happen next.

He looked at Thorin, standing beside him with his back straight and his face nearly emotionless. He was staring at the balcony of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, where Ceauşescu had given his speech less than twenty-four hours before. There were two guards on either side of the balcony, and Bilbo could see people moving behind the glass door that lead into the Party building.

A helicopter flew above the square. Bilbo looked up, following it as it circled the area several times, just high enough to avoid the tops of the nearby buildings. As it once again flew over the middle of the square, one of its doors open and what looked like thousands of pieces of paper fluttered out. Bilbo frowned, watching as the papers slowly fell towards the crowd. A gust of wind caught them before they reached the people, however, carrying them away from the plaza and the people gathered there.

“Manifestos,” Thorin said, and Bilbo looked back towards him. His brows were furrowed, his forehead wrinkled. “Probably telling everyone to leave and go back home.”

Bilbo nodded, but he didn’t say anything. The wind picked up, whisking the remaining manifestos from view. All around him, people were muttering and whispering, wondering what was going to happen next. The minutes ticked by slowly, and Bilbo could feel the unease mounting in his chest.

Finally, the doors to the Party building opened, and several people stepped out onto the balcony. The crowd immediately interrupted into screams and jeers, their cries of protest growing louder as Ceauşescu emerged from the middle of the group. He stepped to the front of the balcony, one hand raised, the other gripping a microphone.

Bilbo scowled, stepping closer to Thorin. Though Ceauşescu seemed to be yelling into the microphone, Bilbo could barely hear him above the shouts of the crowd. The dictator had lost control of his people a long time ago, and there was little he would be able to do now to regain it.

He tried for several more minutes to address the crowd, but they refused to back down. The screams were deafening in Bilbo’s ears, and he raised his hands to cup his mouth, adding his own voice to the cacophony around him.

“ _Jos dictatorul!_ ” he yelled, lifting his head and rising to the tips of his toes, as if that might somehow amplify his voice. “ _Jos dictatorul!_ ”

Beside him, Thorin joined in, his booming voice rising above the cries of the people surrounding him. Bilbo grinned, and several other people joined them, chanting as Ceauşescu stood on the balcony, visibly angry and arguing with his guards and several officials.

Even after Ceauşescu was ushered back inside the Party building and the doors swung shut behind him, they continued shouting, their fists in the air and their voices loud and angry.

◊◊◊

Ceauşescu was gone and the city of Bucharest was in chaos. The dictator had fled by helicopter several hours ago, effectively giving up control of the government. A group calling themselves the National Salvation Front had quickly taken over, storming the Party building and ransacking it. The army had left Ceauşescu’s side, joining the protestors, and a group of people believed to still be loyal to the seemingly now former dictator had begun attacking both civilians and soldiers alike.

Bucharest had become a veritable warzone. There seemed to be blood everywhere, pooled in the streets and staining the sides of buildings. Bilbo sat crouched behind an abandoned tank, his fist gripping the front of his shirt as he attempted to steady his rapid breathing. He tried not to focus on the splatter of blood drying on the pavement in front of him, looking instead at the quickly darkening sky above. It was nearly 4:30pm, he guessed, though he had lost track of the time long ago.

It felt like ages had passed since he’d been standing in the middle of Piaţa Palatului, watching as Ceauşescu failed to gain control of his people. In reality, it had only been about five or six hours, if his estimate was correct. He and Thorin had spent that time running through the streets, helping where they could and trying to stay out of the line of fire. Bilbo tried not to think of the small handgun lying on the ground beside him, and how it had felt in his hand when he’d grabbed it from where it had been left, discarded, in an empty TAB. 

He’d fought in battles before. He’d _killed_ people before. But he had never used a gun, at least not to hurt anyone—only a sword or knife, and the amount of people he’d killed was, thankfully, rather low. In Scotland, he’d been taught how to use a musket, but had never actually fought with one. Though the small gun did offer a sense of security, the thought of actually using it to hurt someone left a vile taste in his mouth.

Bilbo pushed the thoughts from his mind, focusing instead on Thorin. He was kneeling beside him, peering around the edge of the tank to where a small group of soldiers and civilians was fighting against several Ceauşescu loyalists. The fight was happening only a few metres from where they were hiding, and Bilbo felt himself paling with each gunshot.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, staring at Thorin with pleading eyes. “It’s too dangerous. One of is going to end up shot.”

“Not if we stay here,” Thorin argued, looking over his shoulder at Bilbo. It was cold out, the temperature dropping even more as the sun sank, but his face was still streaked with sweat. “If we leave, we have more of a chance of getting shot.”

Bilbo frowned, scanning the area for all possible escape routes. There didn’t seem to be any. One direction lead to the Ceauşescu loyalists, and the other would put them directly in their line of fire. The only other way out would through the middle of the fight, to a small alleyway on the other side of the street. Neither of those options had high chances of success.

Cursing quietly, Bilbo leaned his head back, resting it against the tank’s hard metal side. He shivered and dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, his teeth clenched tightly together. Thorin turned to face him.

“It’s hard to tell what’s happening,” he said, sitting down with a huff, his back pressed against the tank’s continuous track. There was a deep frown on his face. “I can’t... I can’t just keep sitting here, doing nothing while people are fighting and _dying_ right in front of me.” He paused, letting out a deep sigh and running his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Bilbo, but I just ca—”

“I know,” Bilbo said, cutting him off. “I understand.” He gave him a small, sad smile. “I know you, Thorin. I know what you’re like. I’d be stupid if I thought I could keep you from this fight, no matter how dangerous it is.”

Thorin looked at him for a moment, silent, his eyes grateful and full of apologies. “I’m—”

Bilbo held up a hand, quieting him. “But if you think you’re going out there alone, then _you’re_ the stupid one,” he said, his voice full of authority and his expression determined. “I won’t let you go out there and risk your life by yourself.”

Thorin looked like he wanted to argue, but Bilbo shot him a look that told him any debate would be useless. He nodded, slowly, and leaned towards Bilbo, placing an icy hand on his cheek and kissing him. Thorin’s lips were cold against his, but Bilbo didn’t pull away. His face flushed, hot underneath Thorin’s freezing fingertips, and he reached up with one hand, resting it on top of Thorin’s.

“ _Te iubesc,_ ” Bilbo whispered as they pulled apart, his face hovering centimetres from Thorin.

“ _Şi eu te iubesc,_ ” Thorin mumbled. They stared at each other for what felt like eternity before Thorin finally stood, gently pulling his hand out from under Bilbo’s. He was careful to keep his head low as he inched his way towards the edge of the tank, grabbing his gun from his coat pocket and holding it tightly in his hands.

He looked back at Bilbo. “Come on,” he said, and Bilbo nodded. He grabbed his gun, trying not to think about its solid weight in his hand, and scrambled to his feet. He stood behind Thorin, sucking in several deep breaths of crisp air in an attempt to calm himself. He wondered briefly why he was doing this, but quickly shoved those thoughts from his mind, his grip tightening on the gun.

“Let’s go,” Thorin said, motioning with his head for Bilbo to follow him, and before he could even think they were running out from behind the safety of the tank and into an onslaught of gunfire. Bilbo ducked lower, hurrying towards the small group spread out across the street. They had a small barricade in front of them made up of various pieces of furniture and several bicycles, and three of them were using a small car as protection.

One of the soldiers glanced at them as they approached, smiling. “Good,” he said, his voice gruff as he turned back to face the front and lifted his gun, aiming it down the street. “Reinforcements.”

Bilbo could just barely see the dark shadowy figures of their opponents, gathered several metres down the dimly lit road. Several bullets whizzed past his head and Bilbo crouched lower, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt like he was going to throw  up, but he forced his fears away. He had been in battles far worse than this before—hell, he had _died_ in battle.

He opened his eyes and took in another deep breath. His mouth was dry, but he forced himself to swallow and adjusted the gun in hand.

“Are any of you hurt?” Thorin asked, and the soldier shook his head.

“Nothing serious,” he said, shrugging. “We’ve lost two people, though. I can’t tell what damage we’ve done to them.” He cocked his head in the direction of the loyalists, who were still firing violently, the majority of their shots flying over their heads or embedding themselves in the furniture barricade.

Most of the people in the group were soldiers, still dressed in their uniforms, with a few other civilians mixed in. The soldiers seemed to be doing most of the shooting on their side, and the few civilians that were firing their weapons were doing so clumsily and awkwardly. Bilbo wondered if they were really any help at all, all of them obviously untrained and inexperienced.

Thorin slowly moved closer to the barricade, his gun raised and pointed down the street. He was normally confident with weapons, but even he seemed unsure and uncomfortable. His finger hovered above the trigger for a moment before pressing it, his shot mixing in with the bangs of the others. Bilbo didn’t try and see if he’d hit his mark.

The minutes seemed to drag by agonizingly slowly. Bilbo felt useless just sitting there, wincing at every gunshot that rang out, but every time he raised his gun his hands would shake uncontrollably and he would have to lower them again, afraid that he might accidentally shoot someone on his side. Thorin seemed only slightly more confident, taking several minutes to aim his gun before shooting each time.

A sudden scream pierced the air and Bilbo jumped, startled. He turned to see one of the civilians that had been hiding behind the car sprawled out on the ground, his hands gripping his leg. Blood was seeping out from between his fingertips and dripping onto the pavement, the man’s face pale as he bit down on his lip in an attempt to not scream again.

Thorin reacted almost immediately. He was on his feet in seconds, ducking to avoid the bullets whizzing by over his head as he ran past the others gathered behind the barricade.

“Thorin!” Bilbo called out, straightening and reaching for him.

A shot rang out, louder than the others.

Thorin fell to the ground.

Bilbo felt all the air rush out from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. The world felt as if it had slowed down to a crawl as he stared at Thorin, crumpled and unmoving on the hard pavement.

Beside him, one of the soldiers let out a long slew of curse words. Bilbo glanced at him briefly before looking back at Thorin; he still hadn’t moved.

“Thorin,” he whispered, dropping the gun and crawling on his hands and knees to where he lay, his blood creating a warm puddle beneath him. The blood was sticky on Bilbo’s hands but he barely noticed. He rolled Thorin over from his side onto his back, and chocked back a loud sob. Thorin’s eyes were open, staring blindly at the dark sky above him as the blood slowly seeped from a wound in his chest.

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeated, cradling Thorin’s face in his hands and leaving bloody streaks on his cheeks. “Thorin.”

He had lost him again; he was gone, not even two days after they had been reunited. Once again, they had been ripped apart, and for the thousandth time Bilbo struggled to understand _why_.

He barely heard the gunshots ringing out all around him, and didn’t care that the air he was breathing in smelled sickeningly of blood. He buried his face in his arms, and wept.

◊◊◊

Ceauşescu was killed three days later. He and his wife were apprehended in Târgovişte on December 22nd, and tried a few days later by a kangaroo court in a drumhead military tribunal. They were both sentenced to death, and footage of their execution had been playing on Romanian television since. The National Salvation Front had retained control of the government, and the loyalists had abruptly stopped fighting on December 27th.

It was New Year’s Eve now, nearly ten days after Thorin had died. His funeral had most likely already taken place, one of thousands happening across the city. After he had gotten over the shock, Bilbo had managed to drag Thorin’s body away from the fighting and had stayed with him for hours until someone stumbled upon them and had helped him carry Thorin to a nearby hospital.

He’d been put in the hospital’s morgue, and one of the morticians had managed to contact his wife. Bilbo had left before she had arrived. He hadn’t wanted to explain who he was and how he knew her dead husband, and so he had just gone home.

The country was free now. Ceauşescu was dead, and communism had reached its end in Romania.

It was nearly midnight. Bilbo watched the clock tick, his eyes focused on the second hand as it inched towards the 12. His mother had gone to bed three hours ago, too exhausted to stay up until midnight, and so Bilbo sat in the kitchen alone, watching the clock hanging on the wall.

The second hand passed the 12, and Bilbo smiled. It was officially 1990—a new year, a new decade, a new country. He looked towards the window, where Bucharest sat, dark and quiet.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Toma - Thorin  
> Cosmin - Bilbo   
> Ştefania - Thorin's wife


	5. Though the Sea Rages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> British West Indies, 1714  
> 9th Life  
>  _The pirate and the carpenter_

The sea was endless.

For miles, in every direction, it was all that Franklin May could see. It seemed as if the blue expanse of the ocean stretched on forever, into infinite. Like he could just sail for the rest of his life, and never see any land.

May smiled, taking in a deep breath of salt-filled air. This is what he loved best about sailing—the days when the sky was clear and the ocean never ended.

Behind him, a group of men broke out into loud, raucous laughter. It was sweltering hot outside, even with the cooling ocean breeze, and May had been forced to abandon his usual jacket. Typically this weather made the men irritable and lethargic, but they were in high spirits that day. The prize they had been chasing for weeks was finally within their grasp, and growing closer every hour. The sooner they captured the prize, the sooner they could return to Nassau, and the sooner the men could spend their earnings on drink and women.

“What are you bastards doing?” a loud voice asked, and May turned to see Roberts, the quartermaster, looking down at the laughing group of men. He had a grin on his own face as well, though he was trying unsuccessfully to school into a more serious expression. “Get back to work, you lazy pieces of shit.”

The men grumbled quietly before standing and wandering off. Roberts watched them go, before turning to May, the smirk quickly returning to his face. “It’s impossible to find good, hard-working crew, isn’t it, Captain?” he asked, walking over and leaning against the railing beside May. “All they do is laze around, drinking and speaking of their various dalliances with Nassau’s finest whores.”

“There are some very fine whores in Nassau, though,” May pointed out, and Roberts let out a barking laugh.

“If you have the coin, there are,” he agreed. “Otherwise you can never know what you’ll end up with.”

“Had some bad experiences, have you, Roberts?”

The quartermaster gave another chuckle, shaking his head. “More than you’d care to know.”

“I don’t doubt that,” May admitted. Looking up, he watched a single cloud drift slowly across the sky as men climbed the rigging and adjusted the sails. He turned back towards Roberts, who was watching the sea with a distant look on his face. “Have you spoken to Quigley recently?” he asked.

“Aye, not too long ago,” Roberts answered, his gaze remaining focused on the dark waters below them. “Why?”

“Did he say where we are?” May asked. “I’d like to know.”

Roberts shrugged. “He might’ve, but I can’t remember. I never listen to most of what that man has to say.”

May scoffed, shaking his head. There was a pause, and his expression turned serious. “Do you suppose we’ll find this merchant ship?” he asked.

Roberts let out a loud sigh, shrugging. “She could be days ahead of us, or days behind,” he said. “But if she’s stayed true to the schedule we received, it’s likely we’ll be seeing her shortly. She was heading for Spanish Town, and this is the route most British merchants take to Jamaica.”

May said nothing for a moment, his gaze scanning the bare horizon that stretched on for miles in front of them. “We left Nassau nearly two weeks ago,” he said. “The information that we received about the _Princess Martha_ was found on a ship captured over a week before. It could have been horribly inaccurate, or the _Princess Martha_ could have changed courses since then. Unlikely, but entirely possible.”

“We’ll find her,” Roberts said with absolute conviction. “Don’t worry about that.”

“We had better find her,” May said. “She’s full of commodities from England that will sell for a large sum of money.”

“High-quality textiles from what I saw. Most likely for the wives of wealthy plantation owners.”

“Then let us hope we rob them of their fancy dresses.”

Roberts laughed, clapping a hand on May’s shoulder. “We shall,” he promised. “Or else we will have a crew of unhappy men on our hands, and no one wants that.”

May let out a loud sigh, facing the sea once more as Roberts turned to take his leave. His gaze remained focused on the horizon, which seemed to stretch on until the ends of the Earth and then into eternity itself.

◊◊◊

The hold was dark and full of supplies, and James Gibson cursed loudly as he tripped over a crate for the third time in a row. The lamp in his hands swung violently as he straightened and kicked the crate, calling it a whole slew of swears.

“You alright?” came a quiet voice from behind him, and he turned to see his apprentice, a young boy named Henry Browning, standing a few feet back. He had a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder, and another lamp clenched in his hand.

James grumbled an annoyed “yes”, and Henry shuffled forward, carefully stepping over the barrels and sacks littered around the hold.

“Do you know where the leak is?” the boy asked, and James scowled.

“I was told it’s on the starboard side,” he said, motioning towards the wall he was facing. “Near the stern.” He shrugged. “Matthew wasn’t very descriptive when he told me where he found it.”

“How will we find it then?”

“We’ll look for the spot where the water is coming in,” James explained. “It won’t be a huge gaping hole, but it shouldn’t be too hard. Matthew said it seemed to be coming from between two boards, and it was only a slow trickle of water. Oakum will fix it up just fine.”

Henry nodded, quickly following James as he climbed over the supplies and goods packed around them. It had been over fifty days since they had left England, bound for the colonies in the British West Indies. Just yesterday, the Bahamas were spotted for the first time on the horizon, and they had continued towards them until earlier today, when they had turned south to pass between Eleuthera and Cat Island. It would be another week before they reached Spanish Town, where the majority of their wares from England would be unloaded and sold.

James, as the ship’s carpenter, had only had to make a few repairs since leaving port in England. There had, of course, been problems, as there were on any cross-Atlantic voyage, but those that did arise were minor and easily fixed.

He turned to Henry. “Do you have all the tools?”

Henry glanced at his bag and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Which will we be needing?”

“We won’t know that until we find the leak,” James said, stepping over a half-empty sack and quickly steadying himself as the ship lurched, nearly sending him off balance. He quickly moved aside the crates and barrels lined up against the wall and bent over, holding the lamp in front of his face as he scanned the side of the hull. A rat squealed and scurried away, disappearing into the maze of supplies. Behind him, Henry made a quiet noise of disgust.

“This is your first voyage on a ship, Henry, is it not?” James asked.

“Um, yes, sir,” Henry said, fidgeting with his lamp.

“You had better get used to rats, then, if you plan on making more.”

“Oh, I’m used to rats,” Henry explained. “Our house is full of them. But I don’t like them. One bit me once when I was eight.”

James chuckled despite himself. “Just get over here and help me look for this leak.”

“Yes, sir.”

They found it in less than ten minutes. Like James had predicted, it was close to the floor and the water was slowly seeping out from between two boards. The area around it was damp, with a constant stream of seawater trickling into the ship.

“Here we are, nothing major,” James said, crouching down and setting his lamp beside him. “This will be fixed in no time. Hand me some oakum, will you, Henry?”

Henry nodded and, placing his lamp on a nearby crate, dug through his bag until he pulled out a long strand of the tarred fibre. He handed it to James, who unraveled it and placed it over the crack between the leaky boards.

“The wedges and hammer, please.”

Henry dug them out and handed them to James. Within a few minutes, the oakum fibres were jammed into the thin space between the boards and the water had stopped. James pulled out the knife hanging from his belt and cut off the extra fibre, giving it back to Henry, along with the wedges and hammer, which he returned to the bag.

“And that is how you seal a leak between two boards,” James said, standing with a huff and picking his lamp back up.

“Do we have to do anything else?”

James shook his head. “No, we’re done for now,” he said, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he walked past him. “Now let’s get back up to the main deck. It smells like shit down here.”

“Probably the rats,” Henry suggested.

◊◊◊

May was woken at just past dawn by a loud knocking on his door.

“Captain!” the voice on the other side said, and the door opened to reveal Moses Radley, the boatswain. “Sails have been spotted on the horizon!”

May sat up quickly, running a hand over his face. “Is it the _Princess Martha_?” he asked, his voice groggy from sleep.

“Yes, sir,” Moses replied, obviously excited himself. “Quigley says we’ll reach her before noon.”

May nodded, and Moses quickly turned and left, closing the door behind him. May got dressed in under five minutes, grabbing a telescope from where it sat on his desk before hurrying to the door. Though it was early in the morning and he was exhausted, he wasted no time as he leapt up the stairs to the main deck, where much of the crew was gathered.

Roberts was already there, and he greeted May with a giddy, excited smile. “There she is, Captain,” he said, motioning towards the north, where a set of sails could just barely be seen on the horizon, little more than white dots against the lightening sky.

May extended his telescope and held it up to his eye, quickly focusing on the ship. It was, almost undoubtedly, the _Princess Martha_ —the prize they had been chasing for the past fortnight.  

“We need to sail as quickly as possible,” May said, lowering the telescope and closing it with a snap. “I want her to be captured by noon.”

Roberts nodded. “Aye, Captain.”

May turned to face the crew. “I want as many sails unfurled as is possible,” he yelled. “Make sure the cannons and other weapons are prepared, and that we are ready to board if necessary.”

The men quickly got to work, some heading down to the gun deck and others climbing up the rigging and tugging at ropes. May stood by the railing, leaning over it as he watched the distant ship slowly grow closer and larger. Spanish Town lay several days ahead of them, and so if they did not speed up enough they had no hope of catching the _Princess Martha_.

“Peter,” May said, addressing the sailor standing the closest to him. “Check our speed. I want to see if it’s possible for us to go faster.”

“Yes, Captain,” Peter said with a nod, hurrying off to fetch the necessary equipment.

May and Roberts remained silent as Peter completed his task, both of their gazes focused on the distant merchant ship which, with any luck, would soon be within their grasp.

“Four knots!” Peter cried from the other side of the deck.  

Roberts turned to May. “That ship is approximately fourteen miles away,” he said. “If we stay at this speed, we can reach her by mid-morning. Unfortunately, the wind doesn’t always like to cooperate, which means it’s more likely we’ll reach each other by noon.”

May nodded, his lips curled into a slight frown. “We shall hope for the best,” he said. “One way or another, we will reach her.”

Roberts gave a small grin, leaning forward with his arms resting against the ship’s railing. They both stood silent, their hopes for the events to come slowly unfolding in their minds.

◊◊◊

James sat on the main deck, whittling away at a small piece of wood. He had brought several along with him, knowing that there would be long stretches of time with nothing for him to do. Voyages such as these could be long and incredibly boring, which meant that he often had lots of time with little to do—he usually spent it sleeping, whittling, or explaining how to fix the various parts of a ship to Henry, though that was difficult to do when nothing was broken.

He sighed, dragging his knife along the piece of wood and shaving off thin slices of it. He had started it about two hours ago, and it was just beginning to take on the shape of a small, rather crude fox. He usually carved animals—they were simple, and didn’t require particularly large sticks. Once or twice he had attempted to make a flute, but it hadn’t turned out very well. They never made much noise, and the noise they did make sounded horrible. Still, his daughter had loved them, and often played them as if they were real musical instruments.

James smiled at the thought of his daughter. She was seven, and would be eight by the time he saw her again. He missed her terribly every day he was at sea, during which she stayed with his sister and her husband in their London home. She was the reason he went on these long, hellish trips across the Atlantic—they paid well, and there was always work on merchant ships for skilled carpenters. Though he was away for several months at a time, the pay was so good that he only needed to go on one or two voyages per year. The rest of the year, he was able to stay with his daughter. Those were always the months he looked forward to, and the ones he cherished the most.

“What are you doing?”

James was pulled from his thoughts by Henry, collapsing down beside him to peer at the partially completed fox in his hands.

“Whittling,” James replied.

“Whittling what?”

James scowled at him. “You’re worse than a child.”

Henry frowned, but still leaned in to take a closer look at the carving. “Is it a dog?” he asked. “Or a bear?”

“It’s a fox,” James said, carefully shaping the pointed ears.

Recognition dawned on Henry’s face. “Oh,” he said. “It does kind of look like a fox.”

“It isn’t finished yet,” James said. “So of course it doesn’t look entirely like it’s supposed to.”

Henry nodded, then stood and leaned over the nearby railing. The wind whipped at his scruffy hair, and he squinted as salt water splashed in his face. “What do you s’pose that ship is?” he asked.

James looked at him, his brows furrowed. A ship had been spotted on the horizon several hours ago, at dawn, and had been slowly gaining on them all day. As it drew closer, they’d been able to determine that it was a frigate flying the Union Jack—most likely another merchant ship.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and Henry shrugged.

“Is it a Navy ship, or a merchant ship,” he explained, glancing down at James. “Or even a pirate ship.”

“A pirate ship?”

Henry nodded fervently. “Old Jack was saying that it could be a pirate ship flying false colours.”

James scoffed. “They’re not pirates.”

“How do you know? Even the captain seems nervous.”

“The captain is always nervous,” James argued. “And you shouldn’t listen to Old Jack. Everything he says is absolute nonsense.”

“But what if it is a pirate ship?”

“It isn’t,” James insisted. “You’re worrying yourself for no reason. It is simply another merchant ship, most likely heading to Spanish Town. Just like we are.”

Henry didn’t seem convinced, but said nothing else on the matter. He stood, silent, for a moment, before pushing away from the rail with a sigh and walking off, his hands shoved in his pockets. James watched him go, before shaking his head and going back to his whittling.

However, he found that he couldn’t concentrate, and after less than half an hour he stood, putting the knife away and storing the carving in one of his pockets. He glanced up at the sky, quickly determining that it would soon be noon.

He took in a deep breath of air and leaned over the railing, watching the ship trailing behind them. It had become significantly closer than when he had last looked, and if its speed kept up it would soon be passing them. The thought made him suddenly nervous—what reason did they have for going so fast? He leaned out further, attempting to see the flag flying from the other ship’s stern. It was still the Union Jack.

Glancing behind him, James scanned the expressions of his crewmates. Some seemed worried, while others obviously were not bothered by the quickly nearing ship. The captain was nowhere to be found.

He frowned, and quickly moved away from the railing, searching for something else to occupy himself with.

◊◊◊

May lowered his spyglass, closing it with a snap and returning it to the inside pocket of his jacket. Turning, he sought out Moses in the large crowd of men gathered on the main deck and found him standing near the helm of the ship.

“Moses!” he called, slowly making his way across the deck.

The boatswain looked up at the sound of his name. “Captain?”

“We’re nearly within firing range,” May pointed out, and Moses nodded. “I want us to be prepared to sail up alongside the _Princess Martha_ , and I want all guns ready to fire as soon as I give the command.”

“Shall we raise the black?”

May thought for a moment, before nodding. “Yes,” he said. “As soon as it is raised, fire three warning shots. Aim to have them land just in front of her bow.”

“Yes, Captain,” Moses said, giving another nod. He turned to face the crew and, pointing at two nearby men, cried, “Oi! You two! Raise the black!”

He was met by a round of energetic cheers, and the men lifted their hands in the air and waved their weapons around. Roberts walked up to where May stood, leaning against the short wall behind him.

“Let us hope this merchant captain does not put up much of a fight,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I will not be surprised if he does,” May admitted. “He is carrying valuable cargo, and is not likely to give it up too easily.”

“Then we will have to take it from him by force.”

◊◊◊

James watched, his face paling, as the Union Jack was removed from the back of the ship and replaced by a flag as black as pitch, in the middle of which sat a stark white skull and an hourglass. Seconds after the flag was raised, three shots sailed over the top of the  _Princess Martha_ in quick succession, splashing into the water in front of her.

Pirates.

Around him, the other men erupted into frantic yelling. The captain appeared suddenly on deck, his expression both angered and terrified.

“Pirates, Captain,” one the boatswains said, and the captain glared at him.

“Yes, I can see that,” he snapped, an edge of fear in his voice. He turned to face the crew, watching him with anxious faces. “Prepare for battle,” he announced, and the men cried out in protest. James stood silent, his fists curled at his sides. The captain continued yelling, “I will not lose this cargo without a fight.”

“But Captain, this will be suicide!” the boatswain argued. “They have more men than us, and more weapons, too. We cannot hope to defeat them.”

The captain glared at him. “This is my most valuable shipment of cargo ever,” he said. “I am not going to lose it to _pirates_.”

“You are dooming us all!” someone cried. His voice was followed by dozens of others yelling in agreement.

“Then so be it!” the captain replied. “ _I_ am the captain. I make the decisions.” He paused for a moment, before adding, “This is a risk for us all.”

“But we do not have a choice!” another man yelled.

The captain stood silent for a moment, scowling as he scanned the crowd in front of him. “Prepare for battle,” he repeated.

James swallowed thickly, glancing at the ship behind them, now so close that he could see the people gathered on her deck. A man stood near the bow, watching them as his dark red coat whipped around him in the wind. James quickly looked away, sucking in a deep breath of air that tasted like blood.

They were doomed.

◊◊◊

“Fire!”

Another round of cannon shots exploded through the air, striking the masts and deck of the _Princess Martha_. All around May, men stood with pistols and cutlasses in hand, waiting eagerly for the moment to board. Gunfire rang out and a man fell, a small trickle of blood leaking from his forehead. May clenched his jaw and looked away.

Captain Edmonds of the _Princess Martha_ was stubborn. No matter how many cannon balls splintered the wood of his ship and no matter how many of his men died, he refused to give in. In a way, May admired him for that. But mostly it frustrated him.

Most of Edmonds’ crew had managed to shield themselves from incoming shots and the shrapnel caused by the cannon balls’ impacts. Some had fallen, but not many—not enough.

May frowned, quickly surveying the damage done to the _Princess Martha_. She was very obviously incapacitated. Many of her sails and rigging were damaged, and her mizzenmast was nearly in pieces. She would not sail far, nor quickly, in that condition. In just a few more minutes, they would be close enough to board her.

He turned to face Roberts, standing beside him and barking orders at the men. “Are the ropes ready?” he asked

Roberts looked at him and nodded. “Aye, Captain,” he said. “There are men prepared to throw them at any moment. They simply await your order.”

“Good,” May said, before turning to address the men. “I want you all ready to board as soon as the ropes are thrown and we are securely attached to the _Princess Martha_. Waste no time in getting across."

The men nodded and, slowly, they grew closer to their prize. May waited for the perfect moment to board, carefully watching the ship and her crew. He could see the fear on their faces, but still their captain ordered them to fight on. He must know that this was a fight he could not win.

As soon as they were close enough, May gave the order and half a dozen ropes shot out, the metal hooks on their ends latching onto the railings of the _Princess Martha_. A second later, planks were laid across the gap between the two ships, connecting them.

“Remember,” May yelled as some of the men began running across the boards. Others jumped across to the merchant ship, grasping for nets that hung from her side. “Take what prisoners you can, but ensure that the captain is killed.”

The fighting began mere seconds later, the air quickly filling with the sounds of gunshots and screams. May pulled his cutlass and pistol from his belt as he made his way across one of the planks. Jumping down onto the deck of the _Princess Martha_ , he raised the pistol, and fired.

◊◊◊

The deck was littered with dead bodies. All around him was the sound of gunshots and the metal of cutlasses clanging together. James took in a shaky breath, tasting the iron tang of blood on his tongue.

The captain’s head lay just a few feet away from him, his eyes rolled up into his skull.

James pressed his lips together, trying desperately to stop himself from shaking. He forced his expression to harden and focused his gaze on the torn sails, refusing to look at the carnage spread out in front of him.

His hands were bound behind his back by a length of coarse rope, and he could feel his wrists being rubbed raw each time he moved. He had been forced to kneel in row with his other captured crewmates, and a pirate prowled around them, a pistol clenched in his fist. The battle was nearly over now—the captain was dead, and most of the crew had either been taken prisoner or killed. They had lost.

James watched the tattered sails fluttering in the breeze, and wondered what would happen to him now. He would most likely be offered the choice to join the pirates’ crew, or he would be killed. Either way, he would never see his daughter again—once he joined their crew, the pirates would most likely be unwilling to allow him to leave and return to England.

His family would think him dead. They would grieve, and carry on with their lives. And as a pirate, he would die, much sooner than he would otherwise. Piracy was a short-lived career. There was little hope in it of ever returning home, to his daughter. But there would be no hope at all if he was dead.

Around him, the world suddenly grew quiet. The gunshots and screams stopped, and James lowered his gaze to see the pirates standing around, wiping the blood from their swords and their faces. So, it was done then. The battle—the slaughter—was over.

One pirate lifted his cutlass into the air and cheered. He was joined immediately by his comrades, and James closed his eyes, biting down on his cheek until he tasted blood.

The minutes passed, and the pirates wandered through the ship, laughing and talking loudly. They collected everything of value they could find and stacked it on the main deck to be carried over to their own ship. Once that was mostly done, one of the pirates walked over and stood in front of them, his arms crossed. He watched them for a moment, not saying anything, before moving to the beginning of the line and asking each man what his role on their ship had been.

There were eleven of them in total, and James’ heart lurched when he realized, quite suddenly, that Henry wasn’t among them. He hadn’t been captured, which meant he was most likely dead. James fought the urge to lash out at the pirate as he stopped in front of him, looking at him expectantly.

“And you?” he asked, his arms still crossed over his chest.

“I’m the carpenter,” James answered, and the pirate nodded, as if in approval, before moving on to the next man.

James watched him, full of rage. Henry hadn’t deserved to die, certainly not at the hands of pirates. He was only seventeen. James should have looked for him after the pirates began attacking, he should have found him and protected him. Henry had been his apprentice and his responsibility, and now he was dead.

James squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall forward, ignoring the pain of his cut wrists and his knees against the hard wood of the deck.

◊◊◊

May sat at the desk in Edmonds’ quarters, digging through his papers and books. He tossed what was useless on the floor, but stacked anything of value on the desk in front of him. Edmonds had quite a few novels with him, and May was flipping through one by a man named Woodes Rogers when a knock sounded at the door.

“Yes?” he called, looking up only briefly as Roberts stepped into the room.

“Captain,” he said, nodding in greeting. “The hold has been emptied of its goods, and the men have already begun bringing them over to the _Journey_.”

“Has everything been recorded?” May asked, and Roberts snorted.

“You know you do not have to ask me that,” he said. “Every last bolt of fabric has been recorded and accounted for, and I know precisely where it will be stored aboard our ship.”  

May smiled, nodding. There was a reason Roberts was quartermaster.

“And what of the prisoners?” he asked.

“There are eleven in total, all sound, able-bodied men.”

May finally looked up from the book, frowning. “We cannot take on eleven more men,” he said. “We do not have the space, nor the resources, even with those that we gained today.”

Roberts nodded solemnly. “I know,” he said. “There is a cook among them, as well as a carpenter. The rest are ordinary sailors.”

May nodded, rubbing the pages of the book between his fingers as he thought. “No surgeon?”

Roberts shook his head.

“We shall take the carpenter and the cook, then,” May decided.

“Aye, Captain.”

Neither of them said what would be done with the remaining prisoners, though they were both thinking of it.

◊◊◊

James stared down at Henry’s bloodied face, the lump in his throat growing larger and larger with each passing minute. The young boy’s eyes were still opened, staring blindly at the hot mid-afternoon sun, and so James knelt down, closing them gently. He stood back up and wrapped his arms around himself, cold despite the blistering heat. There were two bright red rings on his wrists, like bloody bracelets, and he felt as if he was wearing shackles.

“You’ll get used to it,” someone behind him said, their hand on his shoulder, as if it was any comfort. James turned to see Moses, the boatswain, and nodded dumbly, unsure of what to say.

They stood, silent, for a moment, before Moses’ face brightened. “Ah, there’s Roberts, the quartermaster,” he said, pointing in the direction of a dark-haired man who was yelling orders at the men carrying the cargo across to the pirates’ ship. “He’ll want to meet you.”

James nodded again, and followed as Moses lead him across the deck to where the quartermaster stood.

“Roberts.”

The man straightened at the sound of his name, smiling when he saw James. He looked more like a friendly innkeeper than a pirate.

“This is James Gibson, the new carpenter,” Moses introduced.

James took Roberts’ offered hand, trying to push all thoughts of Henry and his other dead crewmates from his mind.

“Valentine Roberts,” the other man said. “Quartermaster of this fine crew.”

“Have you met the cook?” Moses asked, and Roberts nodded.

“Aye, he seems like a good man,” he said. “I believe we shall all be safe in his hands.” He turned to James, his smile surprisingly warm. “I know you’re probably very shocked right now, but you’ll get used to this life soon enough. I promise you that.”

James nodded, still unsure of what to say.

“Now, come,” Roberts said, either not noticing or ignoring James’ obvious discomfort and placing a strong hand on his shoulder. “I shall take you to meet our captain.”

James nodded, and followed Roberts as he was once again lead across the deck through the large crowd of men. He made a point not to look at the bodies carelessly stacked together, as if they were nothing.

Roberts’ voice pulled his attention away. “There he is,” he said, motioning to a man standing nearby, watching as the cargo was carried across the planks to the other ship. “Captain!”

The man looked over at the sound of Roberts’ cry, looking first at the quartermaster and then to James. His face fell as their eyes met, and Thorin felt his mouth go dry. He stumbled back a few steps, but quickly steadied himself, never once taking his eyes off Bilbo, who now stood frozen with a horrified expression on his face.

Thorin glanced at Roberts, and found Bofur looking back at him, oblivious to what was happening. He grabbed Thorin by the elbow and lead him towards Bilbo, who Thorin could tell was desperately trying to school his features into neutrality.

“Captain, this is our new carpenter, James Gibson,” Bofur introduced, motioning to Thorin. “And this”—he motioned to Bilbo—“is Captain Franklin May.”

Thorin bowed his head slightly, his teeth pressing together so hard that they hurt. “Captain.”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Gibson,” Bilbo said, his voice revealing none of the emotion Thorin could see swimming just below the surface.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither saying a word, until Bilbo nodded and promptly turned on his heel and walked away. Thorin watched him until he disappeared below decks.

“He’s a bit odd,” Bofur said, and Thorin nodded, having nothing else to say.

◊◊◊

Bilbo felt like he was suffocating. Every breath of air he sucked in failed to fill his lungs, and he braced his hand against the wall to keep himself from collapsing to his knees. It was like he was drowning, and each breath was causing him to sink deeper and deeper down, until his feet touched the sandy bottom.

The lower decks were empty, having already been picked clean of anything valuable or useful. Bilbo stood there, one hand pressed against the wall and his head bent, sucking in big gulps of air until his breathing calmed. Even after, he didn’t move, his eyes squeezed shut as thoughts raced through his mind.

Thorin was here. He was alive, and with him he had brought all the memories of these lives that Bilbo could never have even imagined before—these lives where he seemed like an entirely different person, like someone he wasn’t, and couldn’t be, anymore.

He let out a loud sigh, running a hand over his face. Up above, he could hear Roberts— _Bofur_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head—yelling orders to the men. Soon, all the cargo would be transferred over to the _Journey_ and the _Princess Martha_ would be sunk, along with the bodies of her dead crew.

Bilbo pushed himself from the wall. He wondered, briefly, what he would say to Thorin—what he could possibly ever say to him now. Bilbo had, no doubt, just destroyed his life. Few wished to become a pirate, and certainly not those who had a job on the ship of a wealthy merchant. For years Bilbo was able to remove himself from the things he had done and the things he would do. He never dwelt too long on them, because he knew if he allowed himself to feel even the smallest amount of guilt it would overwhelm and destroy him.

He took in a deep breath and turned towards the stairs that led back up to the main deck. He climbed them slowly, and when he surfaced he immediately sought out Thorin, his eyes scanning through the crowd for his familiar dark hair and tall figure.

“Are you alright, Captain?”

Bilbo jumped at Bofur’s voice, the quartermaster suddenly beside him. His heart lurched as he turned to face him and saw Bofur for the first time in decades. He looked different, lacking the hat, braids, and facial hair, yet at the same time he looked the same. He looked like Roberts, whom Bilbo had known for years, but also like Bofur. It was odd to look at him and see how the two mixed, a combination of lifetimes.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo answered, his response coming after several seconds of silence.

“Are you sure?” Bofur asked, and Bilbo nodded.

“Yes. Perfectly fine.”

It was obvious that Bofur didn’t believe him, but he said nothing else on the matter. “Alright,” he said, giving a curt nod. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I have to go ensure that those buffoons didn’t miss anything when they searched the ship.”

Bilbo nodded, and Bofur walked away with a short wave over his shoulder. He stood where he was for a moment, at a loss for what to do, until he finally spotted Thorin near the pile of cargo. He seemed to be waiting for the others to carry their loads across to the _Journey_. Bilbo waited until he had picked up the crate at his feet and was heading for one of the planks to move towards him.

Thorin noticed him immediately and paused, watching him approach with an intense expression. Bilbo, however, only stopped for the briefest of moments as he brushed past Thorin, just long enough to whisper, “Meet me in my quarters, when you are done here.”

He didn’t wait for Thorin to reply, instead continuing on to one of the empty planks. The deck of the _Journey_ was a hive of activity, and he quickly wove his way through the crowd of men, disappearing into his office.

◊◊◊

It was nearing sundown when the long-awaited knock sounded at his door. Bilbo’s head shot up at the sound, and he quickly stood, straightening his ruffled jacket.

“Come in,” he said.

The door creaked open, and Thorin stepped into the room. He stood there for several moments, unmoving, and Bilbo could feel his heart speeding up with each passing second.

“Close the door,” he said, after what felt like eons. Stepping out in front of the desk, he motioned to a nearby chair. “Sit, if you’d like.”

Thorin nodded and stepped further into the room, sliding the door closed behind him. Bilbo watched him, trying to think of something—anything—he could say. He had told him to come here, but he hadn’t thought of what to say when he showed up. There was nothing, really, that he _could_ say. He was a criminal—a thief and a murderer. He wasn’t the person Thorin knew him as, and he hadn’t been for a long while.

“Bilbo.” Thorin broke the silence, his voice quiet and full of pain. He took a few steps forward and then stopped, his gaze focused on Bilbo.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo whispered, just loud enough for Thorin to hear. They stared at each other, Thorin’s eyes full of confusion and sadness. Bilbo hated that he was the cause of it.

“What will happen now?” Thorin asked. He had always been so sure of everything, but now there was uncertainty in his voice. He had no power here. There was nothing he could do, and Bilbo could tell that he hated it.

There were several seconds of silence. “We head for Nassau,” Bilbo said, taking in a deep breath. “Until then you’ll... you will act as a member of this crew. We will decide on what to do next when we reach New Providence.”

Thorin nodded, but didn’t say anything. An unasked question hung in the air—Bilbo could see it written all over Thorin’s face.

_What happened to you?_

Bilbo frowned. _I don’t know_.

He sighed, returning to the bench that sat behind his desk and lowering himself onto the springy, worn cushions. “Please,” he said, once again motioning to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”

Thorin complied, settling into the hard wooden chair without a word. The silence that hung in the air was nearly palpable.

“Why did you apologize?” he asked, after several seconds had passed.

Bilbo’s frown deepened. “I feel guilty,” he explained. “And I... I do not know what to do about it.”

Thorin was silent for a moment. “This does not seem like something you would do,” he said. “Piracy. You always were so adamant that you were not even a burglar, and now you are the captain of a band of criminals.”

“I am not Bilbo Baggins anymore,” Bilbo said, his expression hard. “I did not grow up in the peace and gentleness of the Shire. I can no longer be that Hobbit from Bag End, just as I can no longer be Benjamin MacDonell or Jakob Nielsen. And just as you are not Thorin Oakenshield or Toma Izbaşa or the son of some Danish lord.”

“But you are still Bilbo Baggins, in many ways,” Thorin said, picking up a nearby a book and flipping open its cover. “You may no longer be a Hobbit of the Shire, but Mr. Baggins is still a part of who you are.” He paused, closing the book and setting it back down on the desk. “You have always been a great lover of books.”  

His words were full of affection, and Bilbo stared at him, his forehead creased slightly. “You will always be Bilbo Baggins to me,” Thorin said, his voice soft and quiet. There was another moment of silence before he spoke again, “How did you end up here, Bilbo? What happened for you to become a pirate?”

“I had few other choices,” Bilbo explained, his gaze still focused on Thorin. “I did not join this crew willingly—it was forced upon me, much like it has been forced upon you. And I stayed because I thought this life would offer me freedom and opportunity. There was nothing and no one for me to return to.”

“You have no family?”

“My father died when I was young,” Bilbo said. “And my mother had been dead for two years when I joined this crew. I have aunts and uncles and plenty of cousins, but no one close. Not in this life.” He noticed the sadness in his voice only after he had spoken, and awkwardly readjusted his hands in front of him. “What of your family?” he asked, hoping to draw the topic away from himself. “What has become of them in this life?”

Thorin looked as if he wanted to ask  more, but held back. “My mother died several years ago,” he replied, leaning forward and pressing the tips of his fingers together. “My father, however, is still alive, as are Dís and Frerin.”

“And Fíli and Kíli?”

Thorin nodded, a small smile on his lips. “Alexander and John,” he said. “They’re ten and fourteen, and as troublesome as always.”

A pause. “And are you married?”

Thorin looked at Bilbo, who was staring intently at his dirt-covered hands, his teeth clenched together. “No,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “Lucy died the same year as my mother. There was a measles outbreak.” He paused, running his teeth over his dry lips.

“But I have a daughter,” he said, and Bilbo’s head shot up, his eyes going wide.

“A daughter?” His voice was quiet, barely audible. “How old?”

“She shall be eight soon,” Thorin answered. “Her name is Elinor.”

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, before leaning forward, his hands in his hair. “Fuck.”

Thorin’s eyebrows furrowed together. “What’s wrong? What—”

“Quite a lot is wrong, Thorin,” Bilbo interrupted, standing abruptly and causing the desk to shake violently. “Quite a fucking lot.”

“Because I have a daughter?”

“That... that’s not the only thing,” Bilbo said, walking over to a cupboard in the corner of the room and pulling out a bottle of dark liquid. Rum, most likely.

“But it’s part of the problem.”

“It’s not your daughter,” Bilbo said, his voice growing quiet again. “It’s... it’s me. _I’m_ the problem.” He pulled the lid off the bottle, tossing it onto the table, before taking a long drink from it.

Thorin stood, leaning cross the desk to wrap his hands around Bilbo’s and pull the bottle away from his lips. “What do you mean?” he whispered, their faces inches apart. “Why are you the problem?”

Bilbo hesitated for a moment before answering. “I love you too much,” he replied, the words barely leaving his mouth. “I cannot bear to let you go, but I know I cannot keep you.”

“You will always have me,” Thorin said, gently taking the bottle from Bilbo and setting it down on the desk. “I will always be yours.”

Bilbo shook his head. “That isn’t true,” he insisted. “You have your daughter, and she needs you. Much more than I do. I know now that I cannot keep you here, no matter how much I want to.”

“Come with me,” Thorin said, his voice pleading. “Return with me to England.”

Bilbo scoffed, sitting back down on the bench. Thorin remained standing. “I cannot ever return to England,” Bilbo said. “The minute I set foot on _any_ British colony I will be arrested, let alone if I were to return to England itself. That would be suicide.”

“There must be something,” Thorin argued. “We cannot simply accept our fate as it is.”

“Yet that is what we must do. There is never anything that can be done, in any lifetime, and there never will be. We can accept the goddamn reality of our lives and live with it, but that is it.” He paused, taking in a deep breath of air and exhaling it through his nose. “That’s all.”

There was a moment of long, drawn-out silence. Neither of them said a word, but Thorin’s gaze remained glued to Bilbo, his jaw clenched.

“What the hell has happened to you?” he asked after several minutes had passed. “You don’t even want to try. You’re too scared about what might happen to you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fucking idiot, Thorin,” Bilbo snapped. “For God’s sake. I don’t give a shit what happens to me. I’m doing this so _you_ survive. Do you not remember what’s happened in the past? Shortly after we meet again, one of us ends up _dead_. We didn’t even last two days the last time, so I’m trying to do everything in my power to ensure that you’re the one to survive. And to do that you need to go back to England as soon as possible, without me.”

Thorin was silent for a long while. When he didn’t respond, Bilbo continued, “I’ve spent the past three hours trying to come up with an idea on how to save you, and everything I’ve thought of includes you getting as far away from me as is possible.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Thorin whispered, stepping around the desk and moving closer to Bilbo.

“You have to,” Bilbo insisted, grabbing Thorin’s hands and holding them in his own. He stared at them, as if trying to commit every last detail to memory—every callous and scar that wasn’t there before, that showed a lifetime of carpentry and work. “If you want to see your daughter again, you need to leave.” He paused for a moment. “When we reach Nassau, I’ll be able to get you safe passage to Port Royal. You’ll be able to leave within the week. You will have no trouble finding a ship there willing to take you to England. There are always crews in need of skilled carpenters.”

Thorin took in a deep breath, closing his eyes and wrapping his fingers around Bilbo’s. “When do we arrive in Nassau?”

“A fortnight,” Bilbo answered. “A week and a half, at most, if we are able to move quickly.”

There was more silence, followed by Thorin’s voice, desperate and pleading, “This cannot be the only way.”

“I can’t leave my crew. And if I did, I would only put you in even more danger. I’m a criminal, Thorin. The British do not take kindly to pirates—I am a dead man if they apprehend me, and so are you.”

“One of us is going to die, no matter what happens,” Thorin pointed out.

“And I would rather it be me than you.” Bilbo stood, his hands still tangled together with Thorin’s. “I have nothing waiting for me at the end of this life but a noose around my neck. No one would care if I died.”

“I would.”

Bilbo looked at him. “This is what needs to happen,” he said. “Your daughter... Elinor is waiting for you.”

“Why do you carry on with this life?” Thorin asked. “Why do you not give it up?”

Bilbo gave a  sad, quiet laugh. “I’m in much too deep to give it up now,” he said. “The most I can do is repent when my time comes and hope that God forgives me.”

There was a pause. Thorin freed his hands from Bilbo’s grip and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “Not after I’ve just found you again.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo replied, struggling to get the words out of his mouth. “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to. I must let you go.” He took in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m so sorry.”

Thorin left soon after that. Bilbo remained in his quarters for the rest of the evening, even as the _Princess Martha_ was sunk and they sailed from her burning wreckage.

◊◊◊

**Two Weeks Later**

Thorin had heard stories of Nassau. Most had been told to him by former crewmates on various merchant vessels. He wasn’t sure how they had heard them, or from whom, but from what he had seen of the city they seemed to be true, for the most part. He had been in Nassau for less than twelve hours, and already he had seen half a dozen brothels, several fist fights, and an innumerable number of men passed out, drunk, on the streets.

There seemed to be few rules, despite what Thorin had been told by the crew of the _Journey_. The majority of the men operated under the pirate code of their own captain. It was unlike any city he had ever been in before.

He sighed, turning a corner onto one of the busier streets. He had been trying to make his way back to the beach, where they had set up camp, for nearly half an hour, to no avail. Nassau was a maze of warehouses, taverns, and houses of ill repute, and he seemed to getting more lost by the minute. The chaos of the streets did not help, and he didn’t trust anyone enough to ask for aid.

He stopped on the side of the street, near the entrance to a bar. He stood there for several moments, trying to figure out where in the city he was, when a hand on his shoulder made him jump. He spun to see Bilbo behind him, a relieved expression on his face.

“Jesus Christ!” he swore, and Bilbo gave an apologetic half-smile.

“Sorry,” he muttered, slipping his hand off Thorin’s shoulder. He cocked his head in the direction he had just come from. “Follow me.”

Thorin furrowed his brows in confusion, but made no argument. He followed Bilbo as he silently led them through the streets of Nassau, with obvious knowledge of exactly where they were going. They came out near the beach, and walked across the sand to where the crew of the _Journey_ had made their camp. Bilbo stopped in front of a large tent, beside which stood a pole flying his flag—the black, with a white skull and hourglass. Thorin still shuddered at the sight of it, though he had seen it every day for the past fortnight.

Bilbo pulled aside the tent’s flap, motioning for Thorin to duck inside and quickly following after him. The room was dimly lit, with a single candle illuminating only a corner of it. Bilbo grabbed it and used it to light the other candles lying around, brightening the room immensely, though there was not much to see. A mattress lay on the floor, covered in a few blankets and pillows, and a desk and chair sat on the other side of the room. There were papers and books spread all across the surface of the desk, as if Bilbo had been living here for weeks instead of hours. A chest shoved into the corner was the only other object of note.

“Would you like a drink?” Bilbo asked, wandering over to the desk, where a dark bottle sat.

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo smiled. He uncorked the bottle and poured its contents into two glasses, one of which he handed to Thorin. He took it gratefully, throwing back most of the liquid in one gulp. As he lowered the glass, he noticed Bilbo watching him, a now sad expression on his face.

“I have managed to secure you a position on a ship heading for Port Royal,” he said, after Thorin shot him a questioning look. “The captain wishes to meet you tomorrow, in the morning. You leave in four days.”

“Only four days?” Thorin asked, his expression incredulous.

Bilbo nodded, solemn. “It was the best I could do,” he explained. “There are few crews here who sail to Port Royal, and those that do are often of a... better repute than most. As such, they are unwilling to deal with pirates any more than is absolutely necessary. The only reason this captain agreed is because he knows and trusts me.”

“But I am no pirate,” Thorin said, frowning.

“Unfortunately, you are,” Bilbo said. “At the moment, you are working and sailing under my banner, which makes you a pirate in the eyes of nearly everyone on this Earth.” He paused, taking a long swig of his drink. “But not for much longer. The moment you sail away from this godforsaken island, you desert my crew and cease being a pirate.”

Thorin let out a loud sigh, staring at the dark liquid swirling in his glass. The notion of leaving this crew was both relieving and devastating. “How will you explain my... sudden disappearance to your men?” he asked.

“I will tell them you ran off,” Bilbo said with a shrug. “Desertion is not at all unheard of. They will, of course, be unhappy about it. Good carpenters are not easy to come by, but there is little they will be able to do.”

Thorin set his glass down. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, frowning.

“Do not be,” Bilbo argued, placing his own glass on the desk. He moved towards Thorin, taking his hands in his own. “There isn’t any reason for you to apologize. This life is hell—it isn’t one you want to have, and I’m glad you will not be joining it. You deserve better.”

There was a pause. “So do you.”

Bilbo laughed quietly, rubbing his thumb along Thorin’s knuckles. “No, I don’t,” he argued. “I... I really don’t.”

Thorin’s brows furrowed together. “You’re not a bad person, Bilbo,” he said, his voice quiet.

“I wish I could believe you.”

“You should.” Thorin lifted a hand, brushing strands of hair from Bilbo’s eyes. “No matter what you say or think, you are still that Hobbit from Bag End who insisted that he was not a burglar and whined about a forgotten handkerchief.”

“I’m much more than a burglar now, aren’t I?”

“But simply because you do bad things, you are not a bad person,” Thorin insisted.

“There are quite a few people who would disagree with you,” Bilbo pointed out, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. “Most notably the British government, as well as the entire Royal Navy.”

“Then fuck them,” Thorin muttered, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Bilbo’s.

Bilbo reacted immediately, his hands moving to Thorin’s neck and up into his hair. Thorin smiled into the kiss, pulling Bilbo closer until there was virtually no space between them.

“I love you,” Bilbo whispered, their lips only millimetres apart. Thorin’s smile grew, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“I love you, too,” he responded. “No matter these lifetimes throw at us.”

Bilbo laughed, and kissed him again, until it felt as if they were going to drown in each other.

◊◊◊

**4 Days Later**

The sun had not yet risen when Bilbo was shaken awake. He cracked his eyes open, bleary from sleep, to see Thorin hovering above him. He was already dressed, though dark circles hung under his hairs and his hair was tousled.

“Wake up,” he said, shaking Bilbo again.

“What time is it?” Bilbo asked with a moan, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself further.

“Before dawn,” Thorin answered with a glance towards the tent’s flap, which had been pushed aside to reveal the quiet world outside. “Most likely around 4 o’clock in the morning.”

Bilbo sighed, running a hand over his face. “You’re leaving in an hour.”

Thorin nodded. “I’m leaving for their camp now, before anyone else wakes up,” he explained, a frown appearing on his face.

“What about the men keeping guard?” Bilbo asked, sitting up with a groan.  

“I don’t believe they noticed me,” Thorin said. “If they did, they said nothing about it.”

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin stepped out of the way as he stood. “I...” he started, but stopped himself. He let out a loud sigh, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows drew together. “I know I’ve apologized a lot, but I’m... I’m truly sorry for bringing you into this situation.”

“You’ve apologized too much,” Thorin said, grabbing Bilbo’s hand. There were scars littered across his knuckles, and he traced them gently with the pad of his thumb. “There is no need to. There has never been any need to.”

Bilbo took in a deep breath, nodding again. “I know... but that does not stop me from feeling guilt over what has happened.”

Thorin sighed. “The only bad thing to have come from this is that now we have to once again part ways,” he said.

“We’ll meet again,” Bilbo said, cupping Thorin’s cheek. “It may not be for a long while, but it will happen. This goodbye isn’t forever.”

Thorin smiled, nodding. “I know.” He leaned in, gently kissing him. It ended much too quickly for Bilbo, and he followed Thorin to the door, their hands still clasped together.

“Be safe,” he said, as Thorin pushed the tent flap aside.

“You as well.” He pulled their hands apart, and then he was gone, the flap falling back into place. Bilbo stood there for a long while, silent, before stepping out onto the beach. Thorin had already disappeared into the maze of tents.

Bilbo took in a deep breath of salty air, scanning the beach as if looking for some sign of Thorin, though he knew there would be none. He stopped when he caught sight of Bofur, watching him from where he sat by a dying fire. There was a confused look on his face, and Bilbo quickly hardened his expression into one that warned him not to ask questions.

Frowning, he turned on his heel and retreated back inside the tent, making sure the flap was closed all the way.

◊◊◊

**6 Months Later**

“Papa! Hurry up!”

“Elinor!” Thorin called, chasing after his daughter as she ran ahead of him. “Be careful!” He hurried towards her, scooping her up as she wandered onto the busy London street and placing her back on the sidewalk. “It’s too dangerous for you to run ahead like that.”

Elinor scowled. “But you’re so slow,” she whined.

“It doesn’t matter,” Thorin argued. “These streets are very busy, and you’re only a little girl.”

“I’d be safe,” Elinor said. “Promise!”

Thorin shook his head, reaching out his hand for her to take. “Sorry, love.”

Her scowl deepened, but she still took her father’s offered hand. “Now, come on,” he said, swinging their arms as they walked down the street. “Your aunt’s expecting us.”

They arrived at Dís’s house a few minutes later. She already had a large amount of food spread out on the table for lunch, and was brewing a pot of tea when Elinor raced into the kitchen to greet her.

“Auntie! Auntie!” she cried, throwing herself at Dís.

“Hello, little Elinor,” Dís said with a laugh, gathering her niece up into her arms. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” Elinor answered with a smile. “How are you?”

“I’m very lovely, thank you.”

“Where’s Georgie?” Elinor asked, looking around the room for her aunt’s cat, an animal that she absolutely adored.

“I don’t know,” Dís said, standing and letting Elinor slip out of her arms. “Why don’t you go find him? And look for your uncle at the same time, as well!”

Elinor nodded, giggling happily, and ran off, yelling for both the cat and her uncle. Dís watched her go with a smile, before turning to face Thorin.

“And how are you, James?” she asked, wandering over to the fireplace where the kettle had begun boiling. She carefully removed it from above the fire and poured its contents into her delicate white teapot.

“I’m alright,” he answered, taking the kettle from her when it was empty and returning it to its place.

His sister looked at him, a concerned expression on her face. “Are you sure?”

He frowned. “Yes, Cecily, I’m very sure. You do not need to ask me that every time we see each other.”

“I’m worried,” Dís replied, her look of concern turning into a glower. “I feel as though that’s reasonable, considering what happened.”

Thorin let out a loud sigh, running a hand over his face. It had been just over three months since he returned to England. In the first few weeks, his story had been something of a phenomenon—people had been eager to hear of his life amongst the pirates and how he had managed to escape them, never mind the fact that he was a member of their crew for a fortnight and the story of his escape was a bold-faced lie. Still, it had been published in several London newspapers, and while most of the intrigue had died down Frerin was still trying to convince him to write a book about it, insisting that it would sell well.

While public interest in the matter had greatly diminished, most of Thorin’s family still acted as if he might be on the verge of a breakdown at any moment. Though none of them asked him, they all seemed to be of the same agreement that he had suffered unspeakable horrors at the hands of the pirates. He did not bother trying to correct them, knowing it would only cause more trouble.

“I’m fine, Cecily,” he said, walking over to his sister and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I promise you that. If I wasn’t, I would tell you immediately.”

“You had better,” Dís said, giving him a warning glance. “I know you find all this tiring, but please, know that we—William, Nathaniel, Father, and I—do it because we _care_ for you. You act strong and like none of what happened bothers you, but you’re still only human. There is no need to push your feelings away.”

Thorin nodded, leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss on Dís’s forehead. “Thank you, Cecily,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I have caused you so much worry.”

Dís smiled. “Do not—”

She was cut off by the door swinging open and Fíli and Kíli running into the room, their faces red and their breathing heavy.

“Hello, Uncle!” Fíli greeted, Kíli’s own hello only a few beats behind.

“What are you two doing, running in here like madmen?” Dís asked, reaching over and brushing the hair from Kíli’s face.

“We didn’t want to miss lunch!” the boy said, grinning widely at his mother.

“Especially since you’re here, Uncle!” Fíli added, and Thorin smiled.

“I’m glad you boys enjoy my company so much.”

Kíli nodded vehemently. “You’re my favourite uncle,” he said, quietly, as if he were divulging a secret.

Thorin laughed, pulling his youngest nephew into his arms and ruffling his hair. “You had better not tell your Uncle Nathaniel that,” he said. “It would break his heart.”

Kíli laughed, struggling to get out of Thorin’s grasp. “Uncle, let go!” he cried, though his voice was full of joy.

“Is James torturing you again, Alexander?” Dís’s husband, Víli, asked, suddenly appearing in the room. Elinor arrived a few seconds later, Georgie the cat held tightly in her arms.

“No, of course not,” Thorin said, letting Kíli slip from his grasp. The boy scrambled away, still laughing, and Thorin stood, smiling at his brother-in-law. “I would never.”

Víli chuckled, shaking his head. “It is good to see you again, James,” he said, placing a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “I hope you are doing well?”

Thorin nodded. “I am, yes,” he responded.

“Uncle!” Thorin’s attention was one more drawn to Kíli, scurrying up to stand beside him. “Can you tell us the story of how you escaped the pirates again?”

Thorin opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Dís.

“Alexander, you’ve heard that story so many times already,” she said. “Is it necessary that you hear it again?”

Kíli nodded. “Please, Uncle?” he asked, looking from his mother to Thorin. “I love it!”

Thorin smiled again. “Of course I’ll tell you,” he said. “Though I’m sure you could tell it yourself by now.”

“You do it best, though.”

Dís sighed. “You will have to wait until after lunch,” she said, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder and gently pushing him towards a chair. “There shall be no pirate stories at the table.”

Kíli frowned, but complied, quietly taking his seat. Everyone else followed suit, with Elinor climbing into the chair beside her father. As Víli began reciting the prayer of Grace, Thorin’s mind wandered to Bilbo. He had thought of him every day since his departure, and constantly wondered about his well-being. He could very easily be dead, and Thorin would have no way of knowing.

He frowned, and pushed the thoughts away. It was no use to dwell on them—there was nothing he could do.

◊◊◊

Bilbo was drifting in and out of sleep when the jangling sound of keys jerked him awake. He had been awaiting that sound all day, and a surge of fear jumped through him. He watched as the pair of soldiers unlocked the door and entered the cell, the sound of his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His eyes slipped closed momentarily and he took in deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm himself. He lingered briefly on memories of the green, rolling hills of the Shire, where his life had been so much more peaceful than the one he knew now. Though it had been years since he had last seen it, he could still easily picture the calm fields early in the morning, and the tall tree that grew atop Bag End.

He was thrust back into reality by a rough hand on his upper arm, yanking him to his feet. Shackles were slapped onto his wrists as he was pushed towards the door. The soldiers surrounded him as he was lead from the cell and through the jail, past the other prisoners in their filthy, rat-infested cages.

Bilbo sucked in a deep breath of rancid air. He had known this day would come—nothing had ever awaited him at the end but a rope around his neck or a sword through his gut. It seemed as if fate had chosen the former.

In a way, he was glad it was soon to be over. It had been four months since his capture by a pirate hunter, several miles east of the Bahamas, and he’d spent that time rotting in the cells of decrepit prisons. But it was his own fault, he knew—he’d been reckless, and had given the British a reason to find him and see him hanged. It was never wise to attack the ship of a governor, and yet he had.

He frowned. He knew he had been the cause of his own undoing. Bofur had accused him of wanting to die and had told him that he was being rash, but Bilbo hadn’t listened. He was right, in the end.

Bilbo squinted as he was pushed out into the blinding sunlight. It was early afternoon, and the streets surrounding the prison were busy. People stopped to watch as Bilbo was loaded onto a waiting cart, alongside several other prisoners. He recognized none of them. Most of the members of his crew that had survived the battle had already been hanged, Bofur included.  

Bilbo chewed on the inside of his cheek, willing his face to show no emotion. As the cart slowly made its way through the streets of Port Royal, he focused his gaze on the grainy wood beneath his feet, and imagined himself to be elsewhere.

He did not look up until the cart rolled to a stop and he was once again pulled to his feet. The gallows stood in front of him, tall and ominous, and he kept his head bowed as he and the other prisoners were lead towards them. A large crowd was gathered to watch the execution, and they cheered as the pirates were lined up and the nooses were placed around their necks.

A Navy officer began to read out their names and crimes, his voice loud so that all gathered could hear. Samuel Milford. Walter Newby. Roger Till. Franklin May.

Bilbo winced as his named was read. He had faced death so many times, and knew what lay beyond, but it still scared him. Dying was never something he could become accustomed to.

The officer paused and the chaplain spoke up, offering the men a final chance to repent for their sins. Bilbo considered it for a moment, before decided not to. He would not be going to heaven, no matter what he said at the end of his life.

He felt his heart rate speed up as the chaplain finished and the officer ended his speech. The rope was like an anchor around his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the cheers of the crowd grew louder. He willed himself to think of the Shire, and of Scotland and Denmark, and of Thorin. They would meet again, he knew. That much was inevitable.  

He took in a deep breath, and the floor fell out from under his feet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Franklin May - Bilbo  
> James Gibson - Thorin  
> Valentine Roberts - Bofur  
> Cecily - Dís  
> Alexander - Kíli  
> John - Fíli  
> William - Víli


	6. Skies of Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman Empire, 79 CE  
> 12th Life  
>  _The baker and the coppersmith_

The sunlight filtering in through the window was soft, the first light of the early morning. Outside, a dog began barking, and Gaius Betilienus Laterensis was roused from his sleep. He sighed, reluctantly opening his eyes and staring up at the plain wooden ceiling above him. He wondered, briefly, if he could possibly sleep for just a few more minutes, but then decided against it as voices sounded outside on the street below his window. The day was beginning, and there were things to do.

Throwing back his blanket, he set his feet on the floor and stood. The old wood creaked beneath him as he moved about, dressing quickly and fixing his hair into something presentable. Once he was ready, he wandered into the next room, where his nephew still lay in bed, sound asleep.

“Come, nephew,” he said, reaching over and shaking the sleeping figure. “There is much work to be done, and you cannot do it from bed.”

He was met by a discontented groan. “I can try,” his nephew replied, retreating further under the covers until all that could be seen of him was a tuft of dark brown curls.

“I am afraid you actually cannot,” Gaius said, grabbing the edge of the blanket and ripping it off his nephew.

“Uncle, why,” he moaned, trying fruitlessly to retrieve his stolen covers.

“Get up, Quinte,” Gaius said, his voice stern. Standing, he gathered the blanket up in his arms. “The bread will not make itself.” He turned and headed for the nearby staircase, still carrying his nephew’s blanket.

“I hate bread...” he heard Quintus mutter as he started down the stairs.

Once on the main level, he tossed the blanket onto a nearby table and began preparing his bakery for the coming day. He had worked in this same building since he was a child and his father had owned it. They were not a remarkably large business—they served a small, rather poor area, but it made enough money for Gaius and Quintus to live comfortably.

“Quinte!” Gaius called as he threw open the shutters covering the windows, filling the bakery’s rooms with early morning sunlight. “Hurry up!”

“Coming, Uncle!” Quintus yelled, and a few seconds later Gaius heard him hurrying down the stairs. His hair was still tousled from sleep, but he was completely dressed.

“Go feed the donkey,” Gaius ordered, gathering up firewood for the three ovens that filled most of the back room. Quintus nodded and disappeared into the mill room.

Gaius soon had the ovens lit, ready for that day’s batch of bread. As he stood, wiping his hands clean, he heard Quintus’ voice from the mill room, where he was talking to their old donkey. Gaius laughed, shaking his head.

Quintus had been in his care since he was an infant. He had grown to be like a son to him, though he wasn’t, in actuality, even his nephew. He had been the son of his cousin, left with Gaius after both his parents died unexpectedly. Still, Gaius was really the only parental figure the young boy had ever had—he’d only been a toddler when his parents died, and did not remember anything about them. Gaius told him stories of them, but he could never really know them.

He seemed happy enough, however, and for that Gaius was thankful. His nephew had never known a life where he wasn’t raised by his “uncle”, though Gaius knew Quintus still sometimes wished his parents were alive, or at least wondered what his life would be like if they were.  

Sighing, Gaius wandered into the front room, where a few leftover loaves from the day before still sat on the stone counter. They would all be sold today, at a reduced price, most likely to the poorest of his customers. Shuffling them aside, he began making room for the loaves that would be baked in just a short while.

Quintus appeared in the room, and Gaius turned to face him. “Begin preparing the dough,” he instructed. “There is some that was not used yesterday, so ensure that that is baked first, otherwise it will go rotten and will be of no use to us.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Quintus said with a nod of his head. He spun on his heel and returned to the back room, which was quickly heating up from the fires of the stoves.

Gaius watched him go, before turning back towards the counter. He swept his hand across it, brushing crumbs left behind by the loaves into his other palm. Walking to the front of the main room, he opened the large door that lead onto the street and tossed the handful of crumbs onto the road, where a group of chickens were pecking at the ground.

He remained standing in the doorway as the chickens quickly ate the discarded crumbs. The sun was slowly growing higher in the sky, and all around him the city of Pompeii was waking up.

◊◊◊

The workshop was blissfully quiet, and Marcus Lucilius Atellus revelled in the silence. For once, there was no one bothering him—no nieces and nephews running under his feet, and no brother nattering on incessantly. He was able to work in peace, the only sound being that of his tools banging and scraping on the copper.

Unfortunately, he knew that it would not last. His nieces and nephews would soon appear, rambunctious and dying to know all the details of whatever he was doing. Sooner or later, his brother, as well, would arrive, bored of the work at his own store.

He sighed, leaning towards his worktable as he attempted to beat the dents out of a small copper bowl. All around him, spread out on the table, were dozens of little trinkets and pieces of jewellery, mostly made of copper. He had been a coppersmith for many years, and had been learning the trade since he was a boy and his father had been the owner of this workshop.

It was a decent enough job, providing good business, though the people who frequented his store were by no means affluent. Copper goods were inexpensive—they were much cheaper than other metals, and so one did not have to be a patrician in order to buy a nice copper bowl or copper jewellery. He got business from other neighbourhoods, as well, and so he was never short of money.

Marcus looked up at the sound of giggling voices in his doorway. A trio of familiar children was standing on his front step, whispering to each other. He sighed once more, and promptly looked back towards his work as the children entered the shop, hurrying over to his worktable.

“Do not bother me, I am busy,” Marcus said automatically, glancing up for only a second to shoot his niece and nephews a sharp look.

“What are you doing?” the middle of the three, a boy named Titus, asked.

“I am working, my young nephew,” Marcus answered. “And should therefore not be bothered by troublesome little boys and girls.”

“We won’t bother you, Uncle!” his niece, Lucia, said, her eyes big. “Promise!”

“I find that hard to believe,” Marcus said, though he smiled and ruffled her dark, curly hair. He turned to face his nephews. “Do you not have chores to do?”

The eldest, Publius, shook his head. “Not this morning,” he said, smiling. “Mother said we can do them in the afternoon.”

“No doubt she said that so would come bother me and leave her in peace,” Marcus said, and Lucia giggled, nodding.

“We are your favourite niece and nephews, though,” Titus suggested with a grin.

Marcus laughed. “Now, that is not entirely true. I quite like your cousins, as well. Though if I had any say in the matter I would not have to deal with any of you.” He gave a small smile, obviously joking.

“Do not be so mean, Uncle!” Lucia implored, leaning against his side.

“You are right, my dear niece,” he said, picking the girl up and placing her on his lap. “Forgive me.”

Lucia laughed and placed a kiss on Marcus’ cheek. “I forgive you,” she said.

His smile grew wider. “Good.”

“Where is Uncle Spurius?” Titus asked, picking up one of the trinkets resting on the table and turning it around in his hands. He held it up to his face, inspecting the seams and carvings as if he were a customer looking to buy it.

“Perhaps he is at his own shop for once,” Marcus replied. His younger brother, Spurius, owned a small fruit store near the market, which he ran alongside his wife. It was a relatively successful business, with many loyal customers that should have kept his brother busy. Unfortunately, however, he preferred visiting Marcus’ shop and interrupting his work nearly every day over keeping up with his own store.

“Will he be at the festival tonight?” Publius asked. “It is going to be lots of fun!”

“I believe he will be, yes.”

“Mother said the festival is for Vulcan,” Titus added. “The god of fire!” He wiggled his fingers in the air, making the noise of a whooshing fire.

Marcus nodded. “That is correct,” he said. “He is also the god of metalworking and forges, and so he helps me do my job.” He glanced at the pile of tools and jewellery sitting on his worktable. “Now, speaking of my job,”—he turned to face his niece and nephews—“you may stay, but I have much work to do, and you cannot be distracting me.” He directed his attention to Titus, his expression stern. “Do not go near the fires. For any reason.”

The two boys nodded, their faces full of innocence, and Marcus looked back towards his work. He picked up the bowl he had been working on before the children’s arrival, taking the hammer in his other hand.

“Can I help?” Lucia asked, crawling up onto her knees and leaning with her elbows on the table’s surface.

Marcus smiled, nodding. “Of course,” he said. “You can help me look for dents in this bowl, and I will hammer them out.”

Lucia nodded eagerly. “Alright!”

She stared intently at the bowl as Marcus turned it this way and that, searching both the inside and the outside for any dents or imperfections. He smiled as his nephews scurried through the shop, calling to one another and laughing. The streets outside grew busier as the sun rose in the sky, warming the city around them and the mountain that stood, towering above them, in the distance.

◊◊◊

Gaius stood at the counter, muttering to himself as he carefully counted out a handful of coins. It was drawing near the middle of the day, and he needed to go to the market to do his shopping for the day before the afternoon rush of customers arrived. Satisfied that he had the proper amount, he gathered the coins into his hand and walked over to the back room, grabbing a small cloth bag from where it sat on a nearby table and dumping the coins into it.

“I am going to the market,” he told Quintus, who was busy placing freshly-baked loaves onto a tray. “Try not to burn my bakery down while I am gone.”

“I thought you had more faith in me, Uncle,” Quintus said with a smirk.

Gaius gave a quiet laugh. “I will not be long,” he promised, turning and walking towards the door. As he stepped onto the street, he called back over his shoulder, “Be sure to listen for customers!”

“Yes, Uncle!” Quintus called back, waving at Gaius and motioning for him to leave.

He smiled, and headed off down the busy sidewalk. They lived in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of Pompeii, where many of the residents were Latins, foreigners, or former slaves—people who were not full Roman citizens, though there were, of course, many citizens living in their neighbourhood, including them. Most people were merchants, craftsmen, or restaurateurs, and many of the buildings were small and run-down. Some still had unrepaired damage from a large earthquake that had struck the city seventeen years ago, destroying infrastructure and killing dozens of people.

Gaius dodged around a group of scruffy-looking children at play, stepping briefly off the raised sidewalk and onto the well-trodden street. Animals skittered around him, stray dogs chasing after loose chickens and goats bleating at him from where they were tied to posts. Most people in this neighbourhood did not have an easy life, but no one starved.  

He arrived at the marketplace a few minutes later. It was a relatively small, crowded area, mainly serving the poor residents of the nearby neighbourhoods. The shops and carts were arranged randomly, with little order or thought, and the piercing voices of the merchants hawking their wares rose above the din of the shopping crowd. Gaius was able to quickly find what he needed; he had been coming to this market since he was a child, and had learnt how to navigate it a long time ago. He knew many of the shopkeepers, and as such was easily able to get deals from them.

He finished his shopping quickly, finding all he needed in about half an hour. As he turned to leave the marketplace, however, he decided to go down a different street, taking a route he did not usually follow. This one took him past various workshops, where goods were made from clay and different metals. He had been in need of new bowls for some time now, and there were enough coins leftover that he could spare to buy a cheap set. Inexpensive dishes were not difficult to find in this part of the city, particularly if one was willing to settle for a cheaper material.

Leaving the marketplace behind, he wandered down the narrow street. Both sides were lined by small workshops and restaurants, people milling about by the open doors. As he passed by the buildings he glanced inside, searching for a craftsman who worked with cheap material.

Distracted by the beautifully engraved wares of a silver crafter, he did not notice the man walking straight into his path until they collided. Gaius was careful to keep hold of his basket, but the man stumbled back, nearly tripping onto the busy street. Straightening, Gaius turned to glare at the man, ready to berate him for not paying attention, but instead found himself staring at Thorin Oakenshield.

Bilbo’s mouth fell open, his eyes going wide. The basket nearly slipped from his grasp once again, though he managed to catch it just in time. Thorin stared back at him for a moment, before a smile spread over his face.

“You need to stop walking into me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bilbo scowled at him. “Wha—I...” He paused, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Of all the things to say to me, after so many years. How inconsiderate.”

Thorin laughed, and Bilbo resisted the urge to smile. He had missed that sound so much, though of course he did not realize it until now.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said, still smiling. There was a brief pause, and he reached out to place a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I missed you.”

“I missed you as well,” Bilbo replied, allowing the small smile to break through. He quickly glanced from Thorin’s hand on his shoulder to the people milling around them, shuffling nervously. “Do you have somewhere we can talk?”

Thorin nodded. “My workshop,” he said. “It’s just a few buildings down.”

Bilbo followed him further down the street, along the busy, crowded sidewalk. They stopped outside a small two-storey building, and Thorin ushered him inside, closing the doors behind them.

A large table filled up most of the space, covered in tools and half-finished projects. A fire burning in the corner warmed the room to an almost uncomfortable level, and completed pieces of jewellery and dish ware sat stacked near a small counter, all of them made from copper.

“You’re a coppersmith,” Bilbo said, mostly to himself, and Thorin nodded.

“I am.”

“It... suits you,” Bilbo said, walking over to the counter and picking up a simple unornamented bracelet. “You have always seemed the type to work with metal.”

“Is that because I was a Dwarf?” Thorin asked with a smile.

Bilbo glanced at him over his shoulder. “I suppose it is. But the same could be said for me, as I am a baker. A rather typical Hobbitish profession.”

“I bet you are a good baker, though.”

“Just as you are a good coppersmith.” Bilbo picked up a simple bowl, running his hands over its smooth surface. “This is very well-made.”

Thorin’s smile grew. “Thank you,” he said. He stepped closer, peering around Bilbo to look at the bowl.

Bilbo gently set it back down on the counter and turned to face Thorin. “It is good to see you again,” he said, his voice quiet.

“You as well,” Thorin replied, leaning forward until their faces were only inches apart.

“I...” Bilbo started, but stopped himself, his gaze darting from Thorin’s face to the floor. Slowly he straightened, pressing their lips together just lightly, until Thorin pulled him closer. Kissing Thorin almost felt like coming home—in a world full of lifetimes that were constantly changing, he was the one thing that remained the same, the only part of his life that seemed to be forever set in stone. The thought was always comforting at first, but quickly grew terrifying when Bilbo remembered how everything was supposed to end.

“What happens now?” he whispered.

Thorin looked at him, sadness obvious in his eyes. “You know what happens,” he murmured.

“I wish I did not.” Bilbo looked away, out the nearby window to the bustling city streets.

“But now we know to make the best of things,” Thorin pointed out. “While they last.”

Bilbo said nothing, and silence filled the room, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the cries filtering in from outside.

“How long do you suppose we have?” he asked, after several had passed.

“I do not know,” Thorin said. “But I would say weeks. Months, even. We are not at war, and there is no immediate danger to our lives. Neither of us are rich, true, but poverty will not kill us. We are protected here in the city—a territory of Rome itself.”

A stricken look suddenly crossed Bilbo’s face. “The city,” he muttered. He hurried to the window and leaned out, searching the horizon for the mountain that dominated the horizon. When he found it, he pushed himself back inside, drained off all colour and breathing shakily. “Pompeii.”

Thorin furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes, this is Pompeii. Why is that of such importance?”

“Did you never learn or even hear of Pompeii?” Bilbo asked. He could feel himself growing frantic, and so he took in several deep, calming breaths, clasping his hands together to stop their shaking.

“I do not know,” Thorin said, frowning. “If I did it was a long time ago, and I do not remember.”

“This city,” Bilbo said, pointing at the ground beneath his feet. “It...” He paused, unsure of how to explain the thoughts racing through his mind. “I had a friend, in Copenhagen, who was very interested in ancient Greek and Roman art. He often talked about the murals found in Pompeii.”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “This city still exists in the nineteenth century?”

Bilbo shook his head, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip. “No... I never learned much about Pompeii back then,” he admitted, “but my friend told me about how... how it was destroyed.”

“Destroyed? How?”

“A volcano. It erupted and buried the entirety of Pompeii in several metres of ash. They found hundreds of bodies, apparently, just as they were when they died.”

“So... You are telling me that Mount Vesuvius—which is a volcano—is going to erupt, and kill us all?”

“I don’t know if it will kill us _all_ , but it will certainly kill some.”

Thorin frowned. “When?”

There was a slight pause before Bilbo replied, “I have no idea.”

“We could die today, then, or tomorrow, or even a year from now.”

“I feel a though it will be sooner than a year.” Bilbo glanced back towards the window, his frown deepening. “Much sooner.”

“Why do you say that?” Thorin asked, his frown deepening.

“We are rarely given more than a few months together. If there truly is some greater power behind all this, orchestrating all these lives we have experienced, then it is likely they would push us together shortly before some cataclysmic event that is bound to claim one of our lives. Particularly when we look at what has happened in the past.”

“Perhaps we simply have profoundly bad luck,” Thorin suggested.

Bilbo laughed, though it was quiet and contained very little joy. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

There was a moment where neither of them spoke, both lost in their own thoughts.

“What shall we do, then?” Thorin asked, breaking the silence. “Now that we know what is coming.”

“I do not believe there is much that we can do,” Bilbo said. “We have tried, time and time again, only to fail miserably. We cannot outrun our fates.”

Thorin scowled. “Then you will have us sit here, doing nothing but wait?”

“What would you have us do?”

“We can run,” Thorin suggested. “Leave Pompeii, as soon as we can, and get as far away from it and Mount Vesuvius as is possible. We can go to... to Capua, or Gaeta, or even Rome.”

“You know we cannot do that,” Bilbo said, frowning. “I have family here that I cannot leave, and I am certain you do as well. It is simply not possible to just... pack up and leave. You must be reasonable.” There was another long pause. “We shall do what we always have done,” Bilbo continued, after several minutes had passed. “Try our best to survive, but seek comfort in the fact that, no matter what happens, we will see each other again.”

Thorin reached out, cupping Bilbo’s face in his hand. “I love you,” he whispered, and despite himself Bilbo smiled, placing a hand on top of Thorin’s.  

“I love you, too,” he said, and he pushed all thoughts of erupting volcanoes and coming death out of his mind. They did not have to worry about that right now. Glancing towards the window, he frowned, suddenly realizing how long he had been gone. “I need to leave.” He straightened, letting his hand drop to his side.

Thorin’s eyebrows bunched together, and he frowned. “Why?”

“I left my nephew in charge of my bakery,” Bilbo explained. “Now is when we start to get busy, and I cannot abandon him there alone. I have been gone much too long.”

Thorin nodded, though he did not look happy. “Will you come see me tomorrow then?” he asked, and Bilbo smiled.  

“I will come to buy some bowls,” he promised, stepping around Thorin and hurrying over to the door, where his basket sat. Thorin followed him, and as Bilbo opened the door to leave he kissed him, lightly and quickly.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, and Bilbo’s smile grew.

“Until tomorrow,” he replied, and stepped out onto the street. As he walked away down the bustling sidewalk, he turned once to look back and saw Thorin still standing in the doorway, watching him. He lifted his hand to wave before continuing on his way, disappearing into the thick crowds.

◊◊◊

The bakery was, thankfully, still standing when Bilbo returned. Pushing open the front door and stepping inside, he first noticed the two customers standing near the counter, and then his nephew, who was talking to one of them. It took a moment for his mind to register the boy’s dark curls and soft smile, but when it finally did he felt his heart leap to his throat.

“Frodo.”

It was just a quiet whisper, but it was apparently loud enough to draw Frodo’s attention.

“Uncle?” he asked, his brows furrowing in what could only be concern over Bilbo’s no doubt shocked expression. “Are you alright?”

The customers turned to face him, curious, and Bilbo quickly straightened, coughing awkwardly. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, waving a hand dismissively and giving both his nephew and the customers a reassuring smile. “I just, er... thought I might have forgotten to buy something. That is all.”

Frodo still seemed skeptical, but he nodded anyways, returning his attention back to the customers. Bilbo hurried into the back room, stopping only briefly to check on the donkey and the bread baking in the oven before scurrying up the stairs. He set the basket down on the table with a huff, collapsing onto the rather ratty cushioned chair that sat in front of it.

It had been years—decades—since he had last seen Frodo. So preoccupied had he been with Thorin and the imminent eruption of Mount Vesuvius that he had failed to make the connection between his adopted nephew and the boy he had cared for back in Bag End. The idea that Frodo could be a part of his life here, in Pompeii, had never crossed his mind. He never had been before, either because he wasn’t born at the time or was simply the young child of a distant cousin whom Bilbo had met maybe once or twice before, if at all. But now he was here, once again in Bilbo’s care, and it felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had often thought of Frodo, in the lifetimes where he never saw him, and wondered how he fared. It was good to at last have him in his life once more.

They closed the bakery earlier than usual that evening because of the festival. They were a small household, and so they planned to celebrate with the family of one of Frodo’s uncles. Bilbo had never married or had any children of his own—before Frodo came to live with him, he had been alone. He had never minded much, however. Marriage had never been something he had wanted, though it had been a constant source of frustration for his parents when they were alive. Though he knew it would have made them happy, he rarely regretted his decision to never marry.

The bonfire was already lit when they arrived at the house of Bilbo’s cousin, Servius Papirius Cilo. He was the eldest of seven children, the youngest of whom had been Frodo’s mother. He had two children of his own, both of whom were already grown with families of their own. The eldest had brought his wife and child to the celebrations.

“Gaie Betiliene!” his cousin cried, hurrying over to greet them. “How are you? It has been much too long since we last saw each other, though we live so close.”

Bilbo smiled. “I am well, cousin,” he said. “I trust you are as well?”

“Of course!” Servius said. “How could one not be, on such a fine day and at such a joyous festival?”

“It is good to see you again, Uncle,” Frodo said, and Servius looked at him, his smile growing wider.

“You as well, my dear nephew,” he said, throwing an arm across Frodo’s shoulders. “Come, let us go greet your cousin. He and his family have travelled from Gaeta to be with us during these festivals. You have not yet met his young son, have you?”

Bilbo trailed after them, laughing as his cousin’s grandson was passed into Frodo’s arms. He was a squirmy baby, and grasped at Frodo’s face, giggling happily. Frodo, however, looked rather uncomfortable holding the toddler, and quickly passed him back to his mother.

“You seemed frightened,” Bilbo observed as Frodo sat down beside him, frowning.

“I was worried I would drop him,” Frodo explained. “He is so... small, and was squirming too much.”

“You were that small once,” Bilbo pointed out with a smile. “Though you were much calmer.”

Frodo gave a soft laugh, and then grew quiet, as if he was deep in thought. Bilbo went to ask him what he was thinking of, but decided not to, turning his attention instead to the growing bonfire and the feast that his cousin had prepared.

◊◊◊

Bilbo rose early the next day, though he had been awake late into the night. He dressed quietly and left Frodo in his bed, allowing him a couple hours of more sleep, heading downstairs to begin working. The sun had not yet fully risen, and so he lit candles to work by as he started the oven fires and fed the donkey. They were nearly out of flour, meaning more would need to be ground, and so he set about preparing the mill and the grain. His work was routine—every day the same. He woke early and lit the ovens, the donkey was taken care of and flour collected, with more being made if need be. Leftover dough was prepared and put into the ovens, and then more dough was made. Very little ever changed, and Bilbo had found comfort in that. He knew what needed to be done and he knew how to do it.

Now, however, all he felt was the terrible feeling of wasting time. Any second, Mount Vesuvius could erupt and bury Pompeii is several feet of ash. He should be running, fleeing, getting as far away from the mountain as he could, but instead he was stranding there, making flour and bread as if it were any regular day.

Pushing away from the mill, he left it grinding and wandered through the bakery into the front room, where all was sitting dark and silent, undisturbed. He threw open the front door and stared out into the street. No lights shone in any of the windows, and no people walked about outside. It would be another hour or so before the rest of the city began to awaken.

Taking in a deep breath of muggy summer air, Bilbo’s gaze wandered to the horizon, where the shadow of Vesuvius loomed. He wanted desperately to pack up and leave, then and there, but he knew he could not. Frodo would not go with him without a valid reason, and Bilbo did not have one. Leaving without his nephew was not an option he would even think to consider.  

He frowned, and then turned to go back inside, letting the door close behind him. The morning seemed to drag on slowly. Bilbo could not focus on his tasks, and constantly found himself returning to the window, staring up at Mount Vesuvius, as if his glares could keep it from erupting. As the sun rose and the sky brightened, the mountain became visible and the people of Pompeii began waking. With morning light now filtering in through the windows, Bilbo blew out the candles and opened the windows. A small cart pulled by an elderly man trundled by, and a woman threw open her front door, shaking out a dusty cloth. Bilbo watched them for a moment, wondering briefly what their fates would be, before turning away and going to wake Frodo.

Late morning did not come soon enough for Bilbo. He quickly collected a small purse of coins, and once again left his nephew in charge of the bakery. Stepping out onto the now-busy street, he let out a deep sigh. Stuck inside the bakery, it had felt like he was suffocating, too distracted to do his work properly. As he made his way down the sidewalk, he forced himself to keep his gaze away from the mountain, instead staring at the path ahead.

Just as he rounded a corner onto another street, however, the earth began shaking, rumbling beneath his feet. Bilbo stumbled, throwing a hand out against a nearby wall to steady himself. A few people screamed, and he could hear pottery smashing nearby. He spun to face Vesuvius, expecting to see fire exploding from its top and smoke billowing into the sky, but the mountain was silent. Minor earthquakes like that were common in Pompeii, and had been for years. It passed in only a few moments, and most of the people around him carried on as if nothing had happened, but Bilbo stayed where he was for several seconds, staring up at Mount Vesuvius as if he didn’t quite believe it wasn’t about to erupt.

When it became obvious that nothing, at that moment, was going to happen, he let his hand slip from the wall and turned to continue down the street, his pace quickening. He didn’t stop at the market like he normally would, instead going straight for Thorin’s workshop. It took him a while to remember where it was, but when he did find it, it was thankfully empty of anyone save Thorin.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked, closing the doors as he stepped into the shop.

Thorin turned and stood, nodding. “Yes, I am perfectly alright,” he said. “It was only a small earthquake.” He paused, looking Bilbo up and down. “And you? You are alright?”

“Yes, yes, I am fine,” Bilbo replied. “It simply... scared me. For a moment I thought Vesuvius had erupted.”

“Do you think these quakes are a sign? A warning, of some sort?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose. “A warning that Vesuvius is about to erupt?”

Thorin nodded, and he frowned. “It is possible, I suppose,” he said. “I am no expert on volcanoes, however, and so I do not know the signs of an imminent eruption.” He paused, lost in his own thoughts for a moment, before he caught himself. “But that is not what is important. We need to find a way to leave this city, as soon as possible.”

“You said yourself it was not possible,” Thorin said. “That we cannot simply pack up and leave. We could go, just the two of us, but I will not leave my family and I doubt you will either.” He frowned, letting out a deep sigh. “So what can we do?”

There was a long silence. Thorin sank back into his chair, and Bilbo stood, unmoving, by the door. They were stuck in the same predicament that always seemed to ensnare them—how to escape death. No matter what they did, and no matter how hard they tried, it always found them, one way or another.

“We can do nothing,” he whispered. “We can try to escape, but we will never succeed. We are trapped.”

Thorin sighed, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. Bilbo moved slowly towards him, kneeling beside his chair and placing a hand on his arm. They were both silent for a long while, listening to the sounds of the world outside—of the people oblivious of what was to come.

“There is no sense in worrying about it,” Bilbo decided, after several minutes had passed. “What is meant to happen will happen, no matter what we choose to do.”

Thorin said nothing, instead turning to face Bilbo. He stared at him for a moment, before wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. Bilbo responded quickly, burying his face in Thorin’s chest as his hands grasped at the back of his clothing. He could feel tears pricking his eyes, but he forced them away, taking in deep breaths. Thorin smelled of wood smoke and sweat, but there was something there that was still so utterly familiar that Bilbo couldn’t help but relax.

“I love you,” Thorin whispered, his breath soft near Bilbo’s ear.

“I love you, too.”

They stayed like that, unmoving, for several minutes. Bilbo wondered if they could remain with their arms wrapped around each other forever, ignoring the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, however, they were torn back into reality all too soon by another earthquake. This one seemed much more powerful than the last, and Bilbo turned to watch as the building shook around them, dust falling from the ceiling into his eyes. Bowls and trinkets fell from the shelves to the ground with a loud clatter, and he heard a child begin crying outside. It was all over in less than a minute.

As the world settled, everything was silent, save for the distant sound of the crying child. Bilbo stood, his legs shaky, and let out a deep breath of air. There didn’t appear to be any damage, though it was likely some of the toppled copper wares were now dented. There was no damage to the building, however, and Bilbo wandered over to the window to look outside, where the rest of the street remained generally unchanged as well.

“That one felt stronger than the others,” Thorin pointed out. Bilbo’s gaze flitted to Mount Vesuvius, towering over the city and looking the same as it always did. “As if the eruption is growing closer.”

“I do not doubt that it is,” Bilbo said, turning away from the window with a frown. He returned to the table and sat down across from Thorin with a sigh. Neither of them said anything. They had spent so much time discussing the imminent destruction of Pompeii and how it would almost certainly claim one of their lives, and Bilbo was tired of it.

“Let us talk of something else,” he suggested. “Something that has nothing to do with Pompeii or Vesuvius or our futures.”

Thorin grinned. “What do you propose?” he asked.

Bilbo thought for a moment before answering, “Your family. Tell me of your family here.”

Thorin’s smile grew and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface of the table. “Well... I am unmarried and childless, as you have probably realized, though I do not particularly mind. None of my past marriages were very happy, and I suppose my feelings towards marriage carried over to this life. I did enjoy being a father, however, but I have plenty of nieces and nephews. Both of my siblings are alive, and they are both married with children. Fíli, I believe, is eleven, while Kíli is eight. They have a younger sister named Lucia, as well, who is five. My brother, Frerin, has four children, all of whom are under the age of six, if I remember correctly.”

“Frerin has had children before, has he not?” Bilbo asked. “Though I do not remember their names. It was...” He paused, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Well, I do not quite know when or where it was. It was a very long time ago, even compared to the era we are in now.”

“Are you talking of the time you were accused of your wife’s murder?”

Bilbo nodded, smirking slightly. “And was then killed by my brother-in-law, yes.”

“Frerin did have children then, you are correct,” Thorin said. “The elder two were named Lugaddu and Auitoriga, but I cannot remember the name of the youngest.” He seemed to think for a moment, searching for the forgotten name, but soon gave up, shaking his head.

“And how are your parents?” Bilbo asked.

“My father has been dead seven years,” Thorin answered. “He owned this workshop, and I took over when he died. My mother is still rather healthy, however, and lives with my sister, who runs a restaurant with her husband further down this street.” He smiled, reaching across the table and taking Bilbo’s hand in his own. “Now tell me about you and your family,” he prompted.

“Um... well, I do not have many close relatives, save for my nephew,” Bilbo said, running his thumb across Thorin’s knuckles. “He is not really my nephew, though. His mother was my cousin, and I took him in when his parents died. He has been like a son to be.” He paused, smiling, before continuing, “I have no siblings; my mother nearly died when I was born, and though my parents wanted more children they were never able to have any. My nephew, Frodo, his mother was like a sister to me, however, and I was good friends with many of her siblings as well. I still visit them occasionally, but most no longer live in Pompeii.” He took in a deep breath, letting it out as a loud sigh.

“My mother died during the earthquake seventeen years ago, and my father fell ill and followed her three years later. Only a year after that, both my cousin and her husband died, and so their young son was put in my care.” He sighed, absentmindedly lifting Thorin’s hand and placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. “That boy has been the most important person in my life for years. He was the only person left whom I truly loved. But now I have you as well.”

“I often say this, but you will always have me,” Thorin said. “Even when you do not know it.”

Bilbo grinned, placing his other hand on top of Thorin’s. “You are too sentimental,” he joked, and Thorin smiled.

“You know,” he began. “I have been thinking about—”

He was cut off by the sound of a loud explosion. The ground shook violently beneath their feet, sending even more things flying from the shelves. Bilbo felt his heart jump to his throat as his face paled. Both he and Thorin were on their feet in seconds, running to the front door and throwing it open. A great plume of black smoke was being spewed from the top of Vesuvius, and with each passing second it rose higher and higher. Bursts of flames could be seen shooting from the volcano’s mouth as dark clouds of ash rolled down its sides.

There were screams of initial shock and fear, but then streets grew eerily silent. People stood frozen and quiet, watching the eruption with confused and fearful faces. As far as the Roman people knew, Vesuvius had never erupted before, and most of the population of Pompeii didn’t even know it was a volcano. None of them had ever experienced anything like this before.

Bilbo stood in the doorway, stunned into silence, as the black cloud stopped rising and spread out across the sky, slowly dimming the light of the sun. Lightning cracked near the top of the mountain, and within minutes it was if night had descended upon Pompeii, though it was only an hour past midday.

“We need to leave,” Thorin said, his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Now.”

“Frodo,” Bilbo whispered, reaching up to clutch Thorin’s hand. “My nephew. I need to find my nephew.” He could feel the hysteria growing in him as ice cold fear clenched his heart. Frodo was all alone in the bakery, probably terrified and with no idea what to do. Bilbo moved to leave, but Thorin stopped him.

“We cannot split up,” he said. “If we do, we may never again see each other in this lifetime.”

Bilbo glared at him with all the ferocity of a protective parent. “Then come with me. My nephew is all alone, and I will waste no more time in getting to him. He is my responsibility, and I will not leave him.”

“I must look after my own family,” Thorin said, frowning. “My sister... she and her husband have to look after both their children and my mother. I need to make sure they all escape safely.”

“Then we _must_ separate,” Bilbo said. “There will be no point trying to find each other again in this chaos, and so when you get out of Pompeii, head for Capua. We will meet in front of the city gates in exactly one week, at noon.” He paused, taking in a deep breath. The sky was completely dark now, as if it was midnight and not the early afternoon. “If... if you are not able to make it, then look for me at the house of my cousin, Gnaea Betiliena Laterensis. She lives near the centre of the city and should not be difficult to find.”  

He knew that one of them would not survive this. It was unlikely he would ever see Thorin again in this life, but the thought was comforting.  

“I will be there,” Thorin vowed.  

Even though there were dozens of people around them, Bilbo reached up and kissed up. No one paid them any mind, too intrigued by the black smoke still pouring from the volcano. The kiss was long and lingering—a promise.

“We will see each other again,” Bilbo said, his voice full of conviction.

Thorin nodded, and took a step back. “Now go,” he said, “and I will meet you in one week at the gates of Capua.”

Bilbo hesitated. He opened his mouth to say more, but then decided against it. He reached out, taking Thorin’s hand is his own, and gently pressed a kiss to the back of his knuckles. Then, without another word, he turned and left. Some of the people who had gathered on the street were returning to their homes, while others debated over what they should do. Bilbo could feel a sense of panic slowly rising in the air. He quickened his pace, pushing his way through the gathered crowd.

He didn’t look back.

◊◊◊

As soon as he could no longer see Bilbo, Thorin returned back inside his workshop. He quickly gathered what things he could—money and food, as well as a few personal possessions and clothes. He was back outside in five minutes, a small sack slung over his shoulder.

He made his way through the crowd as fast as he could, shoving people aside. His brother-in-law was standing outside the restaurant with Fíli and Kíli when he arrived, staring up at the dark sky. Kíli was the first to notice Thorin approaching, breaking away from his father to run towards him.

“Uncle!” he cried, throwing himself at Thorin. “Uncle, do you know what’s happening?”

Víli turned to face him. His expression was grave, and Thorin could see the fear in his eyes. “Brother, are you alright?” he asked, and Thorin nodded.

“We need to leave,” he said, placing a protective hand of Kíli’s shoulder. “Now.”

Víli frowned. “What? Why?”

“If we do not, we will be in serious trouble.” He frowned. “You need to trust me, and believe me when I say that what is happening to Vesuvius is more dangerous than most people seem to understand.”

“It is just smoke,” Fíli said, shrugging his shoulders. He was trying to appear brave, but Thorin could tell that he was nervous.

“It will soon be more than that.”

Víli  narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this?”

“I told you, you need to trust me,” Thorin said, trying to keep the panic he was feeling from showing in his voice. If he could not convince his family to leave, they were all going to die. “We need to leave as soon as possible, or it may very well be too late.”

“We cannot just abandon our home. Our entire lives are here.”

“You will _die_ here if you do not leave.”

Kíli’s eyes widened, and he looked up at his uncle in shock. Víli’s frown deepened.

“Surely the situation is not so dire,” he said, his forehead creased.

Thorin scowled. “I need to speak with my mother and sister,” he said.

Víli was silent for a moment before nodding. He ushered his sons through the front door, and Thorin followed after them. Inside, Dís was at the window, a deep frown on her face. Lucia was curled up in her grandmother’s lap, her face buried in the old woman’s shoulder.

“Ah,” his mother said as he entered. “What are you doing here, my son? You look as though you are about to go somewhere.” She motioned to the sack hanging over his shoulder. Dís turned to look at him, her eyebrows furrowing together.

“I have come to tell you that we must leave,” he explained, “as soon as we possibly can.”

His mother frowned. “And why is that?” she asked. “We are not in any danger, are we?”

“We are, yes,” Thorin said, his expression serious.

His mother humphed unhappily. “How so, my son?”

“Have you looked outside, Mother?” Thorin asked, desperation rising in his voice. “We cannot stay. It is not safe.”

“Well, I will not leave,” she said. “I have lived in this city my entire life, and I am not going to leave simply because of some smoke coming from the mountain.”

Dís looked between the two, her face full of worry. “How do you know the situation is so serious?” she asked, looking to Thorin.

He let out a deep sigh. “If I told you, you would not believe me,” he said. “But you must trust what I say. It is much too dangerous to remain here.”

“What if you are wrong? For all I know, it could be much safer to remain indoors. I cannot risk my children like that, and I will not abandon our mother.”

“Neither will I,” Thorin said. “Which is why we all must leave _now_.”

From outside, there came the sudden patter of what sounded like heavy rain pounding at the earth and the roof above them. Víli opened the door to peer out into the street, and Thorin was quickly at his side. It was not rain at all, but rather rocks—hundreds of them, falling from the sky. He knelt down to pick one up, finding that it was light and full of holes, unlike any rock he had ever seen before.

“Pebbles?” Víli asked, stretching out his arm and catching several in his palm.

“There are rocks falling from the sky?” Kíli asked, appearing between the two men and squeezing past them onto the street. The pebbles bounced harmlessly off of him and he laughed, as if he was simply standing outside in the middle of a rainstorm.

A larger rock landed at Thorin’s feet, and he bent to inspect it; it was much heavier and harder than the others. “Tite,” he said, straightening quickly and reaching out towards Kíli. “Come back inside. Quickly.”

Kíli frowned. “Why? They’re harmless.” He kicked at the small rocks piling up on the road, as if to show Thorin that they were nothing but tiny pebbles.

“Tite,” Thorin repeated, anxiety building in his chest as another large rock fell and crashed into a nearby vase, smashing it to pieces. “ _Now_.”

Kíli did not seem as if he was going to listen, and so Thorin dashed out into the street and grabbed his arm, pulling him back towards the house. He hurried him inside, ignoring the young boy’s cries of protest.

“Now do you believe me?” he asked, looking from his sister to his mother.

His mother gave him an incredulous look. “We cannot possibly leave,” she argued. “There are rocks falling from the sky! We are much safer inside.”

“What do you not understand?” Thorin cried, his voice rising in frustration. “If we stay here we _die_! Our only hope is to leave and escape this city before it is buried in ash!”

“You cannot possibly know what is going to happen!” Dís yelled back, glowering at him. “From what I see, it is much safer to remain inside, where there is less chance of being struck by a falling rock! I will not leave my home and put the lives of my children in danger simply because you say so, brother.”

“You will kill them if you stay! Why can you not see that Pompeii is doomed?”

In the corner, Lucia began crying, and Fíli and Kíli were staring at their mother and uncle with wide, terrified eyes.

“Leave, if that is what you want,” Dís said, pulling her sons to her side. “But I will remain here, with my family.”

Thorin frowned. “I will not leave you, Gaia,” he said. “If you decide to stay, then... I will stay as well.”

No one spoke. The sounds of the rocks hitting the roof and the ground was thunderous, a constant reminder to Thorin of the situation they were in. He wondered if he was making a mistake, not forcing his family to leave. Frowning, he walked over to the window and looked outside. There were dozens of people running past, hoping to leave the city and escape the rocks. Some carried hastily-gathered belongings and held pillows over their heads for protection, while others had nothing but the clothes they wore. People were screaming and wailing, and a woman sat cowering in a doorway across the street. A dead child lay at her feet, blood trailing down his face from a wound on his head. In a matter of minutes the streets of Pompeii had been reduced to chaos, the city in turmoil.

Thorin looked away, and closed the shutters.

◊◊◊

By the time Bilbo reached his neighbourhood, small, light stones had begun falling from the sky. He bent to pick one up and frowned, rubbing it between his fingers. It appeared to be pumice, though thankfully it’s light weight and small size made it innocent enough. A few minutes later, however, larger and heavier rocks began falling, much more troubling than the pumice. Bilbo hurried his pace, sprinting between awnings and balconies.

He arrived at the bakery soon after. People had begun crowding the streets, looking to escape the city. He had to force his way through them to reach his front door. Opening it, he stumbled into the front room, quickly closing it behind him again. Inside, everything was dark—no lamps were lit, and as Bilbo wandered through the bakery he could see that the oven fires had burnt low, unattended.

“Quinte!” he called. There was no response. The terrible fear that Frodo had already left seized him and he tried again, his voice louder this time, “Quinte! Are you here?”

A thump came from upstairs, followed by a quiet voice, “Uncle? Uncle, is that you?”

Bilbo ran to the stairs just as Frodo appeared at the top, his face full of relief. “Uncle!” he cried, racing down the steps and throwing himself at Bilbo. “You’re safe!”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, wrapping his arms around Frodo. “I am.” He took a step back, his hands on his nephew’s shoulders. “But we must leave. We cannot remain here any longer. Stay down here and collect all the money you can find. I will be upstairs.”

Frodo nodded, his expression anxious and worried. “I will not be long,” Bilbo assured him, before he turned and hurried up the stairs. A lit lamp sat on the table and he grabbed it as he walked past. He found a bag in one of the other rooms, and filled it with various belongings and things of value as he made his way through the upper level. He knew he would not ever be returning to this place again—in a few hours, it was going to be nothing but rubble buried beneath feet of ash. He would have liked to take his time and walk slowly through his childhood home one last time, but he did not have time, and so he quickly grabbed some food from the kitchen before returning to the lower levels.

Downstairs, Frodo was standing by the front door, silent. He had gathered several small pouches of coins together on the counter, along with the wooden box that they used to collect their earnings. Bilbo shoved the pouches into his bag, dumping the contents of the box in after them.

“Are you ready?” he asked, walking up beside Frodo and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

The young boy nodded, taking in a deep, shaky breath. Bilbo could hear people screaming outside, their cries of anguish filling the acrid air. He hesitated briefly before opening the door, worried about what he might see, but pushed it open anyways. More people now filled the streets than when he had arrived at the bakery, and the sense of fear and panic was almost tangible. It would be difficult to get out of the city—people were no doubt flooding the gates, hoping to find refuge either at sea or further inland.

It would be nearly impossible to find passage on a ship, and so Bilbo turned them in the direction of the Sarno Gate, in the eastern part of the city. The Nuceria Gate was much closer to them, but the Sarno would get them farther away from Mount Vesuvius. Capua lay to the north of the mountain, and thankfully debris from the eruption seemed to mostly be falling to the south, over the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. They would need to head east for a while to escape the fallout zone before turning north, and so it was unlikely they would reach the city before the following afternoon.

“Come,” Bilbo said, leading his nephew out onto the street.

They walked as quickly as they could, their heads bent in protection from the falling rocks. Most of the streets were choked with people, and so at many points they moved slowly. Those around them yelled angrily for everyone to hurry up, while the sound of weeping rang in Bilbo’s ears. Dead bodies lay everywhere, killed by the stones that continued to bombard them. It was as if hell itself had come to live in Pompeii.

“Uncle, what of Servius Papirius and his family?” Frodo asked, nearly yelling to be heard above the din that surrounded them. “Will they be alright?”

“We can only hope that they make it out of the city,” Bilbo replied. “My cousin is a smart man. He will protect his family.”

Frodo frowned. “And what of us? Where will we go?”

“To Capua. That is where your father grew up, and your aunt still lives there. She will be able to help us.”

Frodo nodded, and they both fell silent. The pumice stones, however light, were beginning to hurt, and it did not seem as if they were going to ever stop. Pompeii seemed to be covered in a layer of rock and ash that was only growing thicker, building up on roofs and mixing with bits of smashed pottery. The crowd was moving along at a snail’s pace, with people pushing and shoving at each other. It felt as if they would never make it to the gate before they were all buried alive.

A falling stone suddenly struck the man in front of them and he fell, either unconscious or dead. Bilbo stumbled over his prone body, nearly tripping, while the man’s wife let out a horrified wail and fell to the ground beside him. Her cries immediately grew more frantic, and Bilbo realized that the man must be dead.

“Uncle, we must do something,” Frodo said, grabbing Bilbo’s arm and stopping him.

Bilbo frowned and wrapped an arm around his nephew’s shoulders, pulling him away. “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “We must keep moving.”

Frodo looked distraught; Bilbo could see tears welling in his eyes. He tried to turn and escape his uncle’s grasp, but Bilbo kept a firm grip on him as he dragged him away.

“I am sorry, my nephew,” he whispered. “I am so sorry, but we cannot stop.”

The woman and her dead husband were soon swallowed up by the crowd. Frodo remained pressed against Bilbo’s side, crying silently as they made their way through the panic-filled streets.

◊◊◊

It had been several hours since the eruption began, and it did not seem as if it would ever stop. A thick darkness still covered the entirety of Pompeii, while pebbles and stones continued to pummel the city.

Thorin sat in the front room of his sister’s restaurant, his niece and nephews gathered around him. He was telling them a story, hoping to calm their nerves and take their minds off the disaster unfolding around them. The three young children sat transfixed as he essentially told them a reworked version of the Quest for Erebor, set in the Roman Empire instead of Middle-earth.

“And there,” he said, “in the distance, the travellers could see the tall tower of the Great City of Erebor.”

“So they made it?” Fíli asked, his expression hopeful.

Thorin shook his head, and the boy deflated. “Not yet,” he said. “They still had a long way to go. Before them lay the Mirkwood, a dark forest full of vile creatures and deceitful folk that stretched on to the horizon, as far as the tower.”

“I have never heard this story before,” Víli said, sitting down across from Thorin. “Are you making it up?”

“The children wanted to hear a new story,” Thorin explained.

“What is it about, then?”

“A quest for a lost city!” Lucia said, crawling onto her father’s lap.

“Oh, really? That sounds very exciting.”

“It is!” Kíli said with a vigorous nod.

Above them, the roof groaned and a small trickle of dust escaped from the ceiling. The roof was suffering under the weight of the rocks, and Thorin looked up nervously, blinking the falling dirt from his eyes. These roofs were not made to withstand anything heavier than rain, and as each minute passed they became more susceptible to collapsing.

“Uncle!”

The sound of his niece’s voice brought his attention back to the children, who were all looking at him expectantly.

“Continue the story!” Kíli demanded, scooting closer to Thorin.

Thorin forced a smile. “Of course,” he said, quickly deciding on a way to continue with the remainder of the tale. “Now... faced with the daunting forest, the travellers slowly descended from the rocky hill. Their guide, Albus Barbatus, told them of a place they could seek refuge. It was the home of a fearsome man who could apparently shape shift into a bear at will. Thankfully, this man was a friend to our travellers, and allowed—”

He was cut off by the sudden sound of wood cracking. Streams of dust poured from the ceiling and, without even looking up to see what was happening, Thorin dove for his nephews, wrapping them both up his arms and covering them with his body. A few seconds later, the roof collapsed, burying them in wood, plaster, and stones.

Thorin felt agonizing pain as he was crushed by the weight of the caved-in roof, but then the world faded away, and there was nothing.

◊◊◊

It was nearing late afternoon by the time Bilbo and Frodo made it out of the city. By then, most everyone else had fled, and though they were exhausted they ran. There were towns that were not far from Pompeii where they could spend the night, away from the shadow of Vesuvius, and so they headed for one, travelling along roads and through fields.

The last of the daylight was failing when they finally escaped from beneath the cloud of ash that covered Pompeii. Bilbo did not turn back to watch the city disappear behind a shroud of darkness, and hardly stopped moving until they were miles away.

They found a room in a cheap hotel in a town Bilbo had never been to before. Frodo fell asleep quickly, but Bilbo was awake for hours, exhausted but too terrified and too shaken to sleep. When he did finally find rest it was short, interrupted in the early hours of the morning by a violent earthquake.

He shot up, immediately wide awake and thinking that the eruption had somehow reached them. He was out of bed and at the window in seconds, relaxing only slightly when he saw that the sky above him was clear and full of bright, shining stars.

“Uncle?” Frodo’s voice was groggy as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the dark of the room. “What was that?”

“I am not sure,” Bilbo admitted. He could not see much, but as he scanned the horizon he was able to pick up the faraway figure of Mount Vesuvius, slightly darker than the sky surrounding it. Black ash was still spewing from its mouth, and as Bilbo stared at it he could just faintly see what looked to be clouds, rolling down the sides of the volcano at dizzying speeds. “It... it looks as if something is happening with the mountain.”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked, standing slowly and walking over to where his uncle stood. “Are we in danger?”

Bilbo shook his head. “No. It appears to be... clouds, racing down the mountainside. They seem to be heading for Pompeii, not us.”

They were both silent for a moment, staring at the distant mountain.

“I hope Servius Papirius escaped the city safely,” Frodo whispered.

“I do, as well.” Bilbo closed his eyes as Frodo returned to bed, sending out a silent prayer for the safety of all those he loved. He did not know if the gods he prayed to were real, but it was comforting, to have someone to ask for help when he was so alone.

They left shortly after dawn the next morning. The black cloud still hung over Pompeii, and never left the horizon as Bilbo and Frodo travelled to Capua. They were able to catch a ride on the back of a merchant’s cart, and so they did not have to walk the entire way. They arrived at the city’s southern gates not long after noon, and Bilbo was easily able to find directions to the house of Frodo’s aunt. She was Bilbo’s second cousin through his father, but he had never been very close with her or her siblings. He had only been to her house twice before, the last being many years ago, but he still recognized it as they approached.

The door opened before they even reached it, and Bilbo’s cousin Gnaea Betiliena Laterensis rushed out onto the street.

“You’re alright!” she cried, stopping in front of Frodo and throwing her arms around him. “Oh, thank the gods, you’re alright! My neighbour told me about what happened to Pompeii, and I feared the worst.” She looked to Bilbo, placing both hands on his shoulders. “Neither of you are injured?” Bilbo shook his head, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods. I have been praying for you both since I heard what happened. Come, come, let us go inside. You must be exhausted.” She lead them to her door, ushering them inside.

It was a small home, but very comfortable. Gnaea sat them both down in her front room and went about preparing drinks and food, talking all the while.

“I have not heard any news of Pompeii since I was told Vesuvius exploded,” she said, setting two cups down in front of them. “So I do not know how bad the damage is, or how soon you will be able to return. Of course, you can stay here for as long as you would like. I have more than enough space, and plenty of food and water.”

“I do not think there will be a Pompeii to return to,” Bilbo said, frowning. “Many buildings were starting to collapse when we left, and they city has likely been buried in ash and debris.”

Gnaea shook her head, sighing. “What a terrible, terrible disaster. So many people must have died... How could something like this happen?”

“It does not matter how it happened,” Bilbo answered. “There is nothing that can be done to change it. Now, we must focus on rebuilding our lives.”

Gnaea nodded. “Of course. As I said, you may stay here for as long as you need. I will help you in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said. He glanced at Frodo, who was staring at the cup of water in his hands, unmoving, and reached over to place a comforting hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Truly.”

Frodo lifted his head, looking from Bilbo to Gnaea. “Yes,” he said quickly, nodding. “Thank you, Aunt.”

Gnaea gave a sad smile, then stood to fetch more food.

◊◊◊

The week passed slowly, but eventually the day came for Bilbo to meet Thorin at the Capua city gates. He left Gnaea’s home in the late morning, promising to be back in a few hours. Normally, he would bring Frodo with him, but this time he left his nephew behind.  

It had been exactly one week since Vesuvius erupted. Survivours from Pompeii and other nearby settlements had flooded into the countryside, seeking refuge in towns and cities. Hundreds had come to Capua, like Bilbo and Frodo, but he had yet to hear any word of  Thorin or his family. He knew it was nearly impossible for Thorin to have survived—Bilbo had safely made it out of the city, meaning Thorin most likely hadn’t. Still, he clung to that small bit of hope.

The area around the gates was busy, with dozens of people leaving and entering the city. He found a spot that was relatively out of the way, but where he could still be easily spotted. It was almost exactly noon, and Bilbo fidgeted nervously with the pouch of coins hanging at his waist, carefully scanning the crowd that moved by in front of him.

He did not let himself get disappointed when an hour passed, and there was still no sign of Thorin. He had known for days that this would be the likely outcome. Really, he had already been grieving for a week, and so when it became evident he would not be showing up Bilbo did not linger by the gates. Instead, he quietly shattered the last few pieces of hope that he had held, dropping the fragments onto the street to be forgotten.

Thorin was dead. There was no sense in believing otherwise.

He walked home in silence, but forced himself to act as if nothing had happened, in order to keep questions from his cousin and nephew at bay. The day carried on, as they always did—peaceful, and quiet. Bilbo did not allow himself to think of Thorin, pushing all thoughts of him from his mind. He needed to focus on his nephew, and on rebuilding his life. He did not stop living simply because Thorin did.

He could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Gaius Betilienus Laterensis - Bilbo   
> Quintus Betilienus Laterensis - Frodo  
> Marcus Lucilius Atellus - Thorin  
> Titus - Kíli  
> Publius - Fíli  
> Lucia - Fíli and Kíli's younger sister  
> Spurius - Frerin   
> Gnaea Betiliena Laterensis - Dora Baggins


	7. Forever Hold Your Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England, 1888  
> 15th Life  
>  _The marquess and the valet_

The snow had started to melt. Spring was arriving, bringing with it long-missed sunshine and blooming flowers. As Edmund Holland wandered through the gardens that surrounded his home, he smiled, occasionally stopping to inspect a plant that had begun to poke its way through the ever-decreasing snow. His gardens were his pride and joy, and he took great care in ensuring their upkeep.

Straightening from his inspection of a bed of quickly growing tulips, Edmund pulled his watch from the pocket of his coat. It was nearing late afternoon, and he would soon have to return inside. A small group of his cousins were coming for dinner, invited by his mother, and she would expect him to be there to greet them when they arrived.

Edmund absolutely despised these dinner parties—he had since he first began attending them as a teenager. His parents had hosted dozens of them a year, the guests always made up of the wealthy social elite. His mother still talked of the time the Duke of Cambridge had visited, back in 1867 when Edmund was only a toddler.

As a child, he had found his parents’ parties intriguing, mainly because he had not been allowed to attend—to his young mind, an air of mystery had surrounded them. He would often sneak away from his nanny and hide at the top of the grand staircase, watching as the fancily-dressed guests arrived and were lead to one of the sitting rooms by the butler. He attended his first dinner party the summer before he turned eighteen, when he was home from boarding school. He remembered being rather disappointed by how boring it truly was, and dreaded attending them afterwards.

When his father fell ill and died only two years later, and became Edmund the new Marquess of Exeter, he was expected to continue his parents’ tradition of hosting lavish dinner parties. Edmund had never anticipated becoming marquess so soon—he had been barely twenty years old at the time, and believed his father would still be alive for another decade, at least.

Edmund had undoubtedly failed at maintaining the reputation of his family estate as a social household. He had guests over occasionally, but very rarely hosted any parties, and never to the degree his parents had. It had been five years since he inherited his father’s title, and it seemed he had all but destroyed the standing of his estate, Wybourne Hall, as a sociable home. His mother had insisted he invite his cousins over for dinner, and he knew she would raise hell if he did not.

“It shall be a reunion, of sorts, before the wedding,” she had said. “It has been so long since you have seen some of them, and it will be nice to do some catching up.”

Edmund, of course, had been unable to invite all of his cousins. His mother came from a large family, the ninth of twelve children, and while most had gone on to have only one or two children of their own, one aunt had had seven children, and another uncle five. It was rather unreasonable to invite all eighteen of his maternal cousins, and so he had invited eight, knowing some would be unable to make it.

He checked his pocket watch again as he approached the front doors, sighing. He had about an hour and a half until the first of his cousins were expected to arrive. A footman opened the door just as he reached the front step, closing it behind him as he entered into the main entryway.

Wybourne Hall was a grand house, with four floors and dozens of bedrooms, sitting rooms, and drawing rooms. There was a masterful library on the house’s west side that spanned two floors, and a ballroom on the east, where receptions and parties had often been held. Hundreds of paintings hung throughout the house, some from as far back as the early 17th century. Over twenty servants maintained the home, not including those who worked outside and in the stables. Wybourne was the largest house in the area, and his parents had been incredibly proud of it—his mother still was.

Removing his hat, Edmund headed for the main staircase, a piece of artwork in itself, with its stone carved banisters and luxurious carpet. He passed by Mr. Wakefield, his butler, and paused, smiling warmly at the old man.

“Ah, Wakefield,” he said, and the butler looked towards him. “I have been meaning to ask you, do you know when the new valet is due to arrive?”

“He should be here on Sunday, Milord,” Mr. Wakefield answered, after a moment’s thought, his hands clasped behind his back.

Edmund frowned. “Could he have not been here sooner?” he asked. “It’s only that Mr. Barlow’s condition seems to have worsened, and I feel awfully bad making him work.”

“I understand, Milord. Unfortunately, Mr. Lewis has been required to serve out his notice before being allowed to come work here.”

Edmund nodded, his frown deepening. His current valet, Mr. Barlow, was an old gentleman—he had served Edmund’s father for several years before his death. He had been planning to retire in a short while anyway, but the onset of a debilitating illness had forced that plan to be expedited. As the months wore on, it became more and more difficult for him to perform his duties, until he felt he had no choice but to hand in his notice. Edmund was sad to hear that he would be leaving, but agreed it would be for the best. He offered to provide care to the aging valet, in return for his years of loyal service to the Holland family, but Mr. Barlow had politely refused, insisting that he would be well looked-after by his sister.  

“Well, there is nothing we can do, then,” Edmund said with a sigh. “Thank you, Wakefield.”

“Of course, Milord,” Mr. Wakefield said, giving a nod of his head. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mr. Wakefield turned and left, and so Edmund continued up the stairs. He had little idea as to where his mother was, though he suspected she was already getting dressed to receive their guests. She was a very kindly woman, his mother, and he loved her dearly, though they did not always get along. He would miss her company, however, when he married and she finally moved from Wybourne Hall to the Dower House in town.

Edmund frowned, his hand curling unconsciously into a fist at his side. Thinking of his wedding never failed to make him anxious, and so he pushed all thoughts of it from his mind; there would be time enough for contemplation later.

◊◊◊

Gethin Lewis could not wait to be rid of this job.

It was, in all honesty, one of the worst he had ever had. The pay was fine, yes, and it was not the position of valet that he despised. The problem lay entirely in the man he served—an insufferable, over-demanding earl, whose presence Gethin could just barely tolerate, which presented a significant issue, as his entire job was to care for the despicable man.

As such, he had jumped at the opportunity of a new job, far away from his current employer in the south of England. He had only three days left in his current position, and as the date of his departure grew nearer he found himself growing happier. It was as if simply being in the same building as the Earl of Carlisle sucked all joy from Gethin. He would be gone from this place by noon on Sunday.

Sighing, Gethin shifted in his seat, straightening the newspaper laid out on the table in front of him. It was evening, and the family were eating dinner. Many of the other servants were milling about in the servants’ hall, reading, chatting, and doing extra work. The Countess’s lady’s maid was replacing a button on one of the Earl’s jackets, and Gethin looked up from his paper every now and then to watch her work, her forehead creased in concentration.

“It’s lucky you found the button, after it fell off,” the lady’s maid, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Spencer, commented, holding up the jacket to admire her handiwork. “I don’t think I would’ve found a match, which would’ve made things difficult.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Spencer,” Gethin said, taking the jacket when she offered it to him. “I’m very grateful.”

“You can thank me by learning to sew,” Mrs. Spencer joked, smirking. “You don’t know how friendly the maids at your new place of employment will be. They may not be too keen to do your mending for you.”

Gethin smiled, though he could hear a small amount of bitterness poisoning the edges of Mrs. Spencer’s voice. No one said anything, but dislike for the Earl seemed to be a commonly felt sentiment among most of the servants. It could be seen in the way people often scanned the jobs postings in the newspaper, and spoke longingly of working in another household. The butler tolerated no ill word against the Earl, but Gethin suspected even he often tired of his ill temper and demanding personality. It was obvious that many of the servants were jealous of Gethin’s new position, and had been since he handed in his notice two weeks ago.

“I feel as though I would be absolutely useless at sewing,” Gethin admitted, carefully folding the jacket and standing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return this to his Lordship’s dressing room.”

Mrs. Spencer nodded, and he turned to leave.

The servants’ hall and kitchen rested on the lowest level of the house, and so he had to climb several flights of stairs to reach the floor that housed the Earl’s quarters. The servants’ stairwell was small and plain, interspersed with landings that stopped at each floor. A wide door lined with green baize separated the stairwell from the upper-class world of the Earl and his family, the felt-like fabric muting any sound and trapping cooking smells from the kitchen—things which might disturb the family.

Gethin adjusted the coat in his arms as he reached the second floor. The family would still be downstairs, eating dinner or lounging in one of the sitting rooms, chatting and drinking after their meal. As such, the hallways of the upper levels were quiet, save for the few maids going from room to room, lighting fires and preparing beds. Gethin made his way quickly towards the Earl’s dressing room, wishing he had remembered to grab a candle as he hurried down the hall in the dark.

Thankfully, the fire in the Earl’s dressing room had already been lit, casting a warm glow across the room. Gethin returned the jacket to its proper place in the wardrobe, checking several other pieces of clothing as he did so. As valet, he was responsible for the care of all the Earl’s clothes—he ensured that shirts, pants, and jackets were mended when they needed to be, and that all shoes were shined and did not lose their shape.

Satisfied that there were no other missing buttons or ripped sleeves, he closed the wardrobe with a careful _click_. Yawning, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes—his days often began early, and ended late. It would likely be another hour or so until the Earl retired, and so he would have to find a way to keep himself awake until then. He leaned against the wardrobe, and sighed; he could not wait to be rid of this place and its unpleasant master.

◊◊◊

Edmund’s mother was already sitting in the drawing room when he arrived. She stood when he entered, walking over to greet him with a smile on her face.

“There you are, my dear boy,” she said. “I feel as though I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I do apologize, Mother,” Edmund said, leading her back towards the couch and sitting beside her. “I have been somewhat preoccupied.”

His mother smiled, placing an affectionate hand on his knee. Though Edmund’s father had been dead for several years, his mother still retained the title of Marchioness of Exeter, and would until Edmund married. At that point, she would become known as the Dowager Marchioness, and would move from Wybourne Hall to the Dower House, located in the nearby village.

“Have none of your cousins arrived?” his mother asked, looking around the room as if one of them might be hiding somewhere.

“I suspect they shall be here soon,” said Edmund. Of the eight cousins he had invited, six had accepted, five of whom lived nearby. The sixth, Harriet, lived further east, and was arriving by train. She was supposed to have arrived a few hours earlier, but her train had been delayed, meaning she would arrive just in time for dinner. “I have sent a coach to pick Cousin Harriet up at the station, so she should be here momentarily.”

“Excellent.” Edmund’s mother, Eugenia, had always been a very upbeat and kind person. Her father had been a politically-ambitious earl, and while she grew up in what some would say was a grotesquely large family, she still had all the characteristics of a woman who had been aristocratic since birth. She was very serious about certain things, as such, particularly when it came to social standings and reputation.

When Edmund had inherited his father’s title, she became unnecessarily anxious for him to find a wife, and she didn’t bother hiding it. She had said he needed to produce an heir as soon as possible in order to ensure that the title and estate didn’t pass into the hands of his vile cousin, a man she was certain would drive it to ruin. There was no doubt in Edmund’s mind that once he was married, his mother would not cease her pestering until a son was born.

He sighed, taking the offered drink from Mr. Wakefield. It was early spring, and he was to be married in the summer, a year after his engagement was announced. The marriage was essentially arranged—his fiancée, Miss Clara Fitzosbern, was the beloved niece of a daughterless duke, and while she was untitled she came from an obviously wealthy and prestigious family. Her uncle, the Duke of Hereford, hoped to secure a good future for her, and Edmund’s mother, knowing the Duke was looking for a prospective husband for his niece, had arranged a meeting between Edmund and Miss Fitzosbern. Both the Duke and Eugenia had been pleased by the potential union, and Edmund had proposed a few months later. It wasn’t a marriage born of love, but rather necessity—Edmund needed a wife, and by extension an heir, while Clara needed security.

Edmund was pulled from his thoughts by Mr. Wakefield re-entering the room, his cousin Arthur and his wife Georgia behind him.

“Lord Arthur Home and his wife, Lady Georgia Home,” Mr. Wakefield announced, bowing slightly as Arthur and Georgia entered the room.

Edmund stood, smiling widely at the two arrivals. “Cousin Arthur, Cousin Georgia,” he said, walking forward to greet them. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Arthur said, shaking Edmund’s offered hand. He looked over to where Eugenia sat. “Hello, Aunt Genie.”

“Hello, Arthur,” Eugenia said, her hands crossed on her lap. “How many times must I tell you not to call me Genie?”

“I’m afraid it’s a habit, and one I’ll likely never shake,” Arthur admitted, going over and kissing his aunt on the cheeks.

“How unfortunate,” Eugenia said with a shake of her head. “And how are you, Georgia?”

Georgia smiled, walking over to sit beside her husband’s aunt. “I’m very well, Aunt Eugenia, thank you for asking.” She looked to Edmund. “I thought Harriet was supposed to be here by now. Has something happened?”

“Her train was delayed,” Edmund explained. “But she should be here soon, and in time for dinner.”

“Oh, well that’s good.”

Their conversation was light and cheerful. Georgia asked about the wedding plans, and Eugenia was all too happy to talk of them. She was more excited by the coming wedding than Edmund, and even more than Clara, it seemed.

Edmund listened to their conversation with polite interest, and suffered through his cousin’s talk of politics. It was the sort of social gathering he had been raised on, and yet he found it all so unbearably stifling. He would certainly be glad when the night was over.

◊◊◊

Gethin stared up at the grey sky as the train whizzed past the blurry countryside. The clouds were dark, promising a coming rain; he only hoped it would hold until he arrived at his new employment.

Wybourne Hall, it was called. A grand house in the south of England, looked after by over thirty servants. It was home to the Marquess of Exeter, a man who had inherited the title from his father when he was quite young, as Gethin understood. He had yet to meet any of the other staff members, though he had corresponded with the butler, Mr. Wakefield, through several letters.

It was nearing evening when the train pulled into the station. Gethin stood, retrieving his one piece of luggage from the overhead compartment as the other passengers slowly began making their way off the train. The air on the platform was cool, and smelt of damp. Gethin replaced his hat on his head as he quickly made his way through the crowd gathered at the station. It was not difficult to find directions to Wybourne Hall—the village appeared to be small enough, and the Hall was, after all, the largest house in the area, if what Gethin had been told was to be believed.

The house was easy enough to find, though it was situated a ways outside the village. The drive leading up to it was long, and as Gethin trudged up it a light drizzle began to fall. He quickened his pace, his shoulders hunched up to his ears and his feet crunching loudly on the gravel.

It was certainly a great house—one of the largest Gethin had ever seen. He could hardly believe it even qualified as a house; to him it appeared more like a palace. He stared up at it as he passed by, catching glimpses of delicate curtains and faintly glowing light in the windows. A small courtyard circled the back door, full of buckets and a small shed, tucked into the corner. Gethin rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later a hall boy answered. He seemed to be barely out of his teens, with a young face and limbs too long for his body. He looked at Gethin expectantly.

“My name is Gethin Lewis,” Gethin said. “I’m the new valet.”

The hall boy nodded. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield has been expecting you. Come in.” He stepped aside, closing the door behind Gethin. “The servants’ hall is down this way,” he said, pointing down the dimly-lit corridor.

The hall at Wybourne did not seem much different than any other servants’ hall Gethin had been in—it was simple, with a large board of bells resting on the wall behind the table. Each bell was labeled, and there appeared to be well over thirty.

There were several maids and other servants gathered around the table, and they all looked up as Gethin entered.

“Ah, Mr. Lewis!”

Everyone’s heads towards the doorway, where a middle-aged woman was standing, her hands on her hips. She was wearing a simple, dark-coloured dress, and a set of jangling keys was hanging at her hip. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, a few tufts of greying hair sticking out over her forehead.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said, entering the room and walking towards him. “My name is Mrs. Lynch. I’m the head housekeeper here at Wybourne Hall.”

Gethin bowed his head. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said.

Mrs. Lynch hummed quietly, nodding. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here. We are a large household, yes, but I find most new arrivals settle in quickly.”

“You needn’t worry about me,” Gethin assured her. “I’ve worked in many a large household. I’m sure I can handle this one.”

Mrs. Lynch pursed her lips, as if trying to decide whether Gethin’s comment was rude or not. “Yes, well...” She looked to one of the maids seated at the table, who stood quickly. “Eliza here can show you to your room so you can get settled. Mr. Wakefield is upstairs serving dinner, so he will not be down for a while, but I’m sure Eliza can introduce you to Mr. Barlow, and you can speak with him, if you’d like.”

Gethin looked from the maid—Eliza—to Mrs. Lynch. “Mr. Barlow?”

“His Lordship’s valet,” Eliza explained. She frowned. “Or... I suppose former valet.” There was a brief moment of silence, before Eliza straightened, the smile returning to her lips. “Now, let’s go... Mr. Lewis, is it?” He nodded. “I’m sure you’re exhausted from travelling.”

Gethin remained silent as Eliza led him towards the stairs, pointing out various rooms as they walked by—the boot room, the laundry room, the kitchen. While the servant’s hall was situated on the lowest level, the servants’ quarters were at the very top, reached by several flights of winding stairs.

“I’m sure this is similar to many houses you’ve worked at,” Eliza said as they walked by a baize-lined door. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Have you worked at many houses, Mr. Lewis?”

“Quite a few, yes,” said Gethin.

Eliza sighed. “I’ve only ever worked here. Don’t misunderstand me, though—this is a wonderful place to work, and I’m very lucky to have a position here. But I simply wish I could see more of the country. It’s tiresome, being stuck in the same house day after day.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot always get what we want.”

Eliza laughed quietly. “Yes, that is certainly true,” she murmured. When they reached the servants’ quarters, a few moments later, she led him about halfway down the corridor before stopping in front of a plain wooden door, identical to all the others lining the long hallway. “Here’s your room. Come downstairs when you’ve settled your things.” She smiled brightly at him, before turning and scurrying back down the corridor.

Inside, the room was simple, but livable. Two iron beds sat pushed against the wall, each with a small nightstand beside it. A large oak dresser stood in the corner, and a table and two chairs took up much of the remaining space. The ceiling was low and sloped, with a high dormer window letting in a faint amount of light. Gethin set his suitcase down on one of the beds and stretched to peer out the window, his fingers gripping the ledge. The glass was warped, blurring the world outside so that he couldn’t tell which part of the garden he was looking at. He sighed, falling back onto his heels and letting the curtains slip back into place.

◊◊◊

Edmund walked from the dining room, his mother’s arms wrapped daintily around his elbow. They had a routine, his mother and him; every evening, after dinner, they would sit in the drawing room for perhaps forty-five minutes, chatting while he had a drink and she played a game of patience. His drink was already poured when they arrived, and he gratefully took it from Mr. Wakefield as he sat down on the couch. His mother went to her usual spot at the small, round game table behind him, where a deck of cards was already waiting.

“Can I get you anything, Milady?” Mr. Wakefield asked, and Eugenia shook her head.

“No, thank you, Wakefield,” she replied, carefully laying out her cards.

Mr. Wakefield nodded, and then turned back to Edmund. “Milord, I must inform you that new valet has arrived,” he said.

“Ah, yes, very good,” Edmund said, smiling. “Send him to my dressing room when I go up. I should like to meet him.”

“Certainly, Milord,” Mr. Wakefield said, bowing his head.

His mother went up earlier that evening, having quickly finished her game and finding she was too tired to start another.

“I shall see you in the morning, Mother,” Edmund said, standing as she made her way towards the door.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Goodnight, my dear.”

Edmund smiled. “Goodnight, Mother.”

He followed her soon after, reminding Mr. Wakefield to send up the new valet as he headed for the stairs.

“Oh, and Barlow, as well,” he added, grabbing a candle from the table that sat at the bottom of the staircase and lighting it.

“Of course, Milord.”

Edmund started up the stairs, his hand dragging on the banister. His dressing room was not far, but when he arrived Mr. Barlow and the new valet—Mr. Lewis, he recalled—were already there. He could hear them talking through the door, though they stopped when he opened it. He saw Mr. Barlow first, standing with his hands clasped behind him. Then his eyes wandered to the tall, dark-haired man standing behind him, and he felt all the breath leave his body.

“Thorin,” he murmured, barely taking his eyes off the man as he set the candle down. He could see the shock and surprise on Thorin’s face, and wondered what his own expression must look like.

“Milord?”

Bilbo’s gaze flicked to Mr. Barlow, and he nearly stumbled back when he found himself looking instead at Dori. He was much older than when Bilbo had seen him last, a time which felt as if it had happened centuries ago, but he was still so clearly himself.

“Is everything alright?” Dori asked, and Bilbo straightened, trying to wipe the surprise from his features.

“Oh, um... Yes, of course.” He paused for a second. “Of course.”

Dori stared at him a moment longer before smiling. “Very good,” he said, and then he stepped aside, placing one hand on Thorin’s back.

Bilbo allowed himself to smile, and took a few steps towards Thorin. “Lewis, yes?” he asked.

Thorin nodded, and it seemed it took him a moment or two to find his words. “Yes, Milord,” he answered, bowing his head. “Gethin Lewis.”

Bilbo’s smile grew. “Ah, you’re Welsh, then?” he asked. “It’s only that Gethin is a very Welsh name, though your accent is barely noticeable.”

“Yes, Milord, I am.”

“Whereabouts in Wales do you come from?”

“Bala, originally. It’s a small town, in the northwest.”

Bilbo nodded, wringing his hands together and shifting from foot to foot. It felt odd, speaking to Thorin in such a polite way—like a master to his servant. He glanced at Dori, who was watching the two with slight interest.

“Barlow,” he said, drawing the old man’s attention. “Have you told Lewis everything he needs to know?”

“Most of it, Milord,” Dori replied, “though he seems very capable, and I am certain he will do an admirable job.”

“Excellent.” Bilbo’s smile faltered slightly. “You will be leaving us soon, then?”

“Yes, Milord. On Wednesday.”

“I’m ever so sad to see you go.”

“I’m sad to be leaving, Milord,” Dori admitted, glancing down at his shoes.

“Wybourne will not be the same without you,” Bilbo said. Dori straightened, his chest puffed as if he had just been given a great compliment—Bilbo suspected he was pleased, in a way, to know he would be missed. He continued, “I simply wish there was some way I could help you.”

“Your Lordship has already helped me enough,” Dori said, “and I am ever so grateful for everything this family has done for me.”

There was a new layer of sadness to the loyal valet’s departure, now that Bilbo knew who he had been—an old friend, in more than one lifetime. He took in a deep breath, clasping his hands together behind his back. “We shall have a proper farewell on Wednesday,” he said, and Dori nodded. Bilbo continued, “Until then, you go rest. I do not want to trouble you any further.”

“It is no trouble to me, Milord,” Dori said. “No trouble at all. I have always enjoyed this work, and am sad to be leaving it.”

“I insist, Barlow. Rest, and relax. You have done your service to this family ten times over.”

Dori coughed, and it seemed for a moment that there were tears in his eyes. “Will that be all then, Milord?”

Bilbo nodded, a sad smile on his face. “Yes, Barlow. Lewis can take over from here.”

“Very good, Milord.” The elderly valet nodded, and Bilbo watched him leave, his steps steady as he walked towards the door. He closed his eyes as the door shut behind Dori, before turning to look at Thorin, who had remained silent throughout the whole exchange.

“I do not know whether to laugh or to cry,” he admitted, though a small chuckle escaped his lips.

Thorin smiled, crossing the room to Bilbo in a matter of seconds. They stood in front of each other for a moment, both unsure of what to do.

“I... I must admit I am uncertain of how to act,” Thorin said, his voice still one of a servant speaking to his employer. His gaze stayed focused on Bilbo, but it was obvious he was uncomfortable.

Bilbo watched him as he fidgeted with the hem of his jacket, thinking of how strange it was to see him in such a role. Thorin was always a person who commanded respect. Even when he was a coppersmith or a carpenter, it was easy to see that he had once held great power—that he had once been a king. Now, however, it was difficult even for Bilbo to see that. Thorin was a servant in this lifetime, and no longer in control of himself; he catered to the whims and fancies of those above him, of people like Bilbo.

Bilbo frowned. “Please,” he said, reaching up and brushing his fingers through Thorin’s hair, “do not act like my valet; at least not when we are alone.”

“I do not think I could if I tried,” Thorin admitted, and Bilbo smiled.

“This is certainly a... interesting situation,” he said, moving his hands to Thorin’s shoulders. “But at least we can be together, in some way.”

Thorin let out a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh. “Yes, the marquess and his valet.”

Bilbo scowled at him. “What issue do you have with it?” he asked.

“I simply mean that... it is dangerous for us to be together, in more ways than one.” Thorin sighed, taking one of Bilbo’s hands in his own. “If anyone finds out, I’ll likely be thrown in prison. I’ll most certainly lose my job, and won’t ever work again.”

“No one will ever find out,” Bilbo argued. “And if, somehow, they do... I’ll protect you. I’m wealthy and powerful here, Thorin; I could keep you from jail.”

“That isn’t the only problem.” A pause, and then, “I don’t want to be the reason you _die_.”

Bilbo’s brows furrowed together and he stared at Thorin, silent. “What are you suggesting?” he asked, after several seconds had passed. “Certainly not that you’re going to leave.”

“It may be for the best.”

“No.” Bilbo’s voice was decisive as he pulled his hands away. He took a few steps back and began pacing the room, his arms folded across his chest. Thorin watched him, the look on his face torn.

Bilbo stopped in front of him, visibly agitated. “I won’t allow it. I won’t let you leave.”

“I can leave if I wish.”

“But you don’t _need_ to.”

Thorin sighed, leaning against the nearby wardrobe. “Do you not remember 1714?” he asked. “The West Indies. You sent me back to England, and told me it was because you didn’t want me to die.” There was a brief pause. “That’s what I’m hoping to do now.”

“This is different,” Bilbo argued. “Our lives are not in immediate danger here. There are no battles, no volcanoes, no... no revolution or piracy. We’re _safe_.”

“That’s what I thought as well, when I was the son of a nobleman in Denmark,” Thorin said. “Do you remember? You were a painter.”

Bilbo bit down on his bottom lip, nodding. “Of course I remember.”

“We lived peacefully then, too, and yet I still died, drowned in a creek after being thrown from my horse. What’s to say something like that won’t happen again?”

“But you don’t have to leave. Leaving won’t save us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it never has before. I sent you away in 1714, back to England, and I still died, only a few months later.”

Thorin paused, an expression of surprise crossing his face. “I didn’t know that,” he whispered.

“So stay.” Bilbo’s voice rose as his desperation grew. “Enjoy the time we have left together, no matter how long that is.”

“If that’s what you want,” Thorin said, though Bilbo could see the conflict on his face. He stood in front of him for a moment, before Thorin reached over and slipped the dinner jacket off his shoulders. As he carefully replaced the garment in the wardrobe, Bilbo began to undo the bowtie knotted at his throat.

“I would do whatever you asked of me,” Thorin murmured, taking the silky white tie from Bilbo.

Bilbo looked at him, a small smile on his lips, before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Thorin. “I love you,” he whispered, the weight of Thorin’s arms settling on his back. “More than you know.” His eyes slipped closed and he took in a deep breath, his nostrils filling with Thorin’s ever-changing, yet always familiar, scent. He thought briefly of Clara and their impending marriage, but quickly pushed her from his mind—that was another problem, for another day.

◊◊◊

Thorin did not sleep well that night. He had already been awake for three hours, staring at the slowly lightening ceiling above him, when there was a knock on his door and the hall boy’s voice announced, “Six o’clock.”

He dragged himself from bed slowly, exhausted from a lack of sleep and the thoughts that had run through his head all night, like a laudanum addict who thought only of their drug. He washed his hands and face in the cold water that sat in the washbasin, and dressed quickly.

Downstairs, breakfast was a speedy affair. Most of the maids and footmen had already eaten when Thorin sat down, accepting a cup of tea from a kitchen maid. He had just finished eating when the bell for Bilbo’s room rang. He stood, wiping his mouth on his napkin, and headed for the stairs.

Bilbo was already in the dressing room when he arrived, staring out the window with a grim expression. “It’s going to rain,” he said as Thorin entered, his gaze flicking up to grey clouds floating by overhead.  

“Something warm and casual, then?”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes, I don’t think I’ll be going out today, unless I must.” He turned away from the window and walked over to Thorin, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. “Good morning,” he greeted.

“Good morning,” Thorin replied, and gave Bilbo a small smile.

Bilbo returned the smile, though it was strained and quickly fell from his face.

“Is something the matter?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo didn’t reply. He pulled away, walking over to the chaise longue and perching on its edge, his gaze once more falling on the world outside the window.

Thorin watched him for a moment before heading to the wardrobe, opening it and scanning the clothes inside. They were both silent, the ticks of the clock sitting on the dresser impossibly loud in Thorin’s ears.

Several minutes passed, as Thorin collected various garments and inspected each one carefully, ensuring it was free of holes or stains. He heard Bilbo shifting behind him.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, and he turned to face him, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. Bilbo continued, “I thought you should know...” A slight pause, and then, “I’m engaged. To be married.”

Thorin took in a deep breath, letting out slowly as his chest filled with dread. He wasn’t surprised—not really. Bilbo was unmarried, heirless, and titled. That was not something that often sat well with the aristocracy, and if he was honest it was really a greater surprise that Bilbo wasn’t already married.

“When?” he asked, turning back to the wardrobe.

“The summer. July.” There was another long stretch of silence. “Her name is Clara Fitzosbern.”

“I don’t care about her name,” Thorin said, realizing too late how harsh his tone was.

“No,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin glanced over his shoulder to see him staring at his hands. “No, of course you don’t.” He stood, walking slowly towards Thorin. “It’s a marriage of convenience, Thorin, not love. I hardly know her.”

Thorin sighed, lowering the shirt he was holding in his hands. “I understand,” he said. “Of course I understand. I shouldn’t let it bother me so much; I don’t know why it does.”

“We have both been in this position before,” Bilbo said, his hand coming to rest on Thorin’s shoulder. “And no doubt we will be in it again. It’s simply something we must... become used to.”

“Just as we must become used to everything this hell throws at us,” muttered Thorin.

Bilbo sighed. “I know. It’s... it’s unfair. It makes no sense. But it’s what we have to live with.”

Thorin was silent for a moment, before straightening, smoothing the shoulders of the shirt in his hands. “Let’s not talk of it now,” he said, turning to face Bilbo. “Like you said, let’s enjoy the time we have left, without worry.”

“Let’s at least try,” Bilbo said, smiling.

Outside, rain began to fall. Thorin closed his eyes, listening to the sound of it tapping against the window and shaking through the trees.

◊◊◊

**Five Months Later**

The air outside was hot and sticky with humidity, though the sun had set hours ago. Bilbo sighed, resting his head against the headboard of his bed. He was sitting on top of the covers, an open book that he was struggling to read on his lap. In less than one week, he would be married. The closer it drew to the set date, the more dread he felt and the more he wished he could simply back out of it.

“You alright?”

Bilbo lifted his head slightly, looking to where Thorin sat at the foot of the bed, perusing through yesterday’s newspaper. He had removed both his jacket and vest, and they lay draped across the baseboard. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and Bilbo felt himself blush at the sight of him. He had been a pirate and a Romanian revolutionary in the 1980s, among countless other things, but his recent Victorian upbringing still told him that a man in his shirtsleeves was indecent.

He looked away, his gaze dropping to his book. “I was simply thinking of my wedding,” he replied. “I have been thinking about it a lot lately.”

“As one does, only a week before their wedding.”

Bilbo glanced at him, and shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about Clara more often,” he specified, “and how this entire... arrangement isn’t very fair for her.”

Thorin scoffed. “Fair? She’s going to be a marchioness. Most women would die for that chance.”

“But I doubt she’ll be happy,” Bilbo countered, “stuck in a loveless marriage with me.”

“Perhaps she’ll start an affair with her lady’s maid,” Thorin suggested, snickering.

Bilbo glared at him. “That isn’t funny.”

“It is, at least slightly.”

Bilbo didn’t reply, picking at the pages of his book. Thorin shifted, moving closer to him. “You’re marrying her because you must,” he said, “and she’s marrying you because she must. Even if I wasn’t here, I doubt any great love would have ever developed between you and Clara.”

“Then why am I marrying her?” Bilbo asked, looking up at Thorin. “I’m condemning her to a life of unhappiness.”

“Plenty of marriages are unhappy. And who knows, perhaps she will find happiness. It does not have to be through love.”

Bilbo frowned. “You do not seem to be terribly bothered by the fact that I’m to be married in less than a week,” he pointed out. “Certainly less so than you were five months ago.”

Thorin nodded slightly, looking from Bilbo to his hands. “I’ve made my peace with it,” he explained. “It is not as if I can oppose it, at least not openly. It will happen, regardless of how I feel.”

Bilbo’s frown deepened and he closed his book, setting it aside. Sitting up, he leaned forward and reached out his hands, grabbing Thorin’s and pulling him closer. “I care how you feel,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around Thorin’s.

“No one else does,” Thorin said, “and certainly not when it comes to your marriage to Miss Clara Fitzosbern.” He looked down at Bilbo’s hands, sighing. “Besides,” he continued, “I told you; I’ve made my peace with it. We have both been married and had families before, and no doubt it will happen again.” Another pause. “I understand. I really do.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo murmured, raising Thorin’s knuckle to his lips. “Truly, I am. I wish I could change this, or fix it, or something.”

“It is alright.” Thorin smiled, laughing quietly. “This is certainly not the worst life we have had. It has been a while since we’ve had so long together.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, “But... you must promise me this.” He leaned closer, his grip on Bilbo’s hands tightening. “One day, you will marry me, wherever and whenever we can.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Did... are you proposing to me?” he whispered, his face heating up.

“Well, yes... in a way, I suppose. Of course, who knows when it will happen, or even if it will. This is more of a promise, really—a decision that we will get married, one day. If you want to, that is.”

“Of course.” Bilbo out, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s neck. “Of course I’ll marry you. You needn’t have even asked, really. The minute—the very second—that I’m able to, I’ll marry you.”

Thorin laughed, his face pressed into Bilbo’s shoulders. “I’m glad,” he muttered. “Yes, I’m very glad.”

◊◊◊

Two days later they left for Birmingham, where Bilbo’s fiancée lived with her family. They travelled by train, accompanied by Bilbo’s mother and her lady’s maid, an elderly woman named Mrs. Tompkins. She reminded Thorin slightly of his grandmother, from when he was a young boy. She was kind and very chatty, speaking endlessly about her nieces and nephews as she worked on her knitting.

“Do you have much family, Mr. Lewis?” she asked him, about an hour into their journey.

“I wouldn’t say I have many relatives,” he replied. “But I do have a family, yes, though it has been a long time since I last saw them.”

Mrs. Tompkins gave a sad smile. “We do not get to see our families nearly enough.”

Thorin nodded in agreement, and his gaze returned to the window. He did not like to think of his family, always so far away in Wales. His nephews had been toddlers when he saw them last, in this life, and now Fíli would soon be nearing ten. He sighed, resting his cheek in his hand.

It was nearing noon when they finally pulled into the station at Birmingham. Thorin stood, stiff from sitting so long, and grabbed both his and Mrs. Tompkins’ bags from where they had been stored overhead.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” the elderly woman said, gratefully taking the bag from him.

Thorin grabbed his hat, nodding. “Not a problem.”

On the platform, he was quick to gather Bilbo’s luggage, and helped Mrs. Tompkins collect the Marchioness’. There was a driver from the Fitzosbern household there to meet them, and he and Thorin carefully loaded the luggage onto the carriage, while Mrs. Tompkins went to greet Bilbo and his mother.

“Is everything loaded?” Bilbo’s mother asked, arriving at the carriages with her lady’s maid and her son in tow.

“Just about, Milady,” Thorin replied, securing the belts around one of the trunks as the driver hopped down to open the door.

“Thank you very much,” the Marchioness said, allowing the driver to help her up into the carriage. Bilbo followed suit, shooting a quick glance at Thorin before he disappeared.

The luggage was all secured only a minute or two later, and Thorin and Mrs. Tompkins climbed up onto the front seat, alongside the driver.

“It’s a wonder how you got it all up there,” Mrs. Tompkins muttered as they drove away, her own small carpet bag clutched in her lap.

“It’s all about practice, Mrs. Tompkins,” the driver said with an amiable smile. “After a while, you become accustomed to fitting even the most ludicrous amount of luggage onto one carriage.”

Mrs. Tompkins scoffed, and Thorin smiled as they trundled off down the busy city streets.

◊◊◊

Clara’s family home was not far from the station. She was there on the front step to greet them when they arrived, alongside her parents and brothers. She smiled widely and excitedly at Bilbo as he climbed down from the carriage, and he felt a sharp twinge of guilt as his eyes flicked over to Thorin, who was busy unloading the luggage.

“Welcome to our home,” Clara’s father greeted, a warm smile on his face. “Please, do come inside; you are no doubt tired from your travels. We have tea ready to be served.”

Bilbo’s mother hurried up the steps. “Oh, how wonderful,” she said.

“Come, Edmund,” said Clara, descending the few steps to Bilbo.

He looked at her, and then glanced once more over his shoulder at Thorin. “Yes,” he said, turning back towards his fiancée with a smile. “Tea sounds marvelous.”

Clara grinned, and led him up the steps into the front hall. It was a grand, wonderful home, for a townhouse; Bilbo had never visited it before, but Clara had often spoken of it with great fondness. It was, after all, the home she had grown up in, and as he followed her to the drawing room Bilbo agreed that it certainly was comfortable. There was a simplicity and homeliness to it that one would struggle to find at Wybourne Hall.

His mother was already seated with a cup of tea in her hands when they arrived in the drawing room. She was engaged in deep conversation with Clara’s mother, no doubt over some aspect of the wedding. It was a topic she had rarely strayed from in the past few days. This wedding was to be a rather grand social event—there was a long list of guests, almost all of them wealthy aristocrats.

“It will be the wedding of the season,” his mother often proclaimed. “Second only to a royal wedding.”

Bilbo swallowed thickly, sitting down on one of the couches between Clara and the Duke. He took the offered tea and held it tightly in his hands. He felt as if he was living a lie, one that had gone on for decades, and he honestly didn’t know how much longer he could let it continue.

The conversation carried on around him, and he remained generally silent, lost in his own thoughts. Guilt had been steadily growing within him over the past few weeks, and now with the wedding mere days away he felt consumed by it.

He was relieved when the tea was finished and he was shown to his room. He collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, his eyes slipping shut as his mind ran circles around itself. He could faintly hear his mother speaking down the hall, her loud voice drifting in through his closed door. Groaning, Bilbo grabbed one of the many pillows lying on the bed and pressed it over his ears.

◊◊◊

The day of the wedding was sunny. Not a cloud could be seen in the sky, and as Thorin walked to the church he could feel himself growing hotter in his dark suit. It was not far from Clara’s home to the church where the wedding was to take place, and though it was still morning the air was already hot and thick with humidity. Mrs. Tompkins walked beside Thorin, her face steadily reddening as sweat began to bead on her forehead.

When they finally arrived at the church, almost all of the guests were already there, with Thorin, Mrs. Tompkins, and the other servants from Clara’s house entering last. They sat at the very back, and as Thorin settled into the pew his eyes focused on the altar, where a lone clergyman stood, making final preparations. His gaze never strayed from the front of the church as they sat, waiting for the wedding party to arrive.

The music began only a few minutes later, and all the guests stood in unison as the church doors opened. The ushers were the first to walk up the aisle, followed by the first bridesmaid and the groomsman. The rest of the bridesmaids came after, and then finally Bilbo, with Clara’s mother on his arm. Thorin’s eyes followed him as he walked up the centre aisle, barely even glancing at the bride when she entered. It felt as if his heart was being torn from his chest, and he took in a shaky breath as his hands gripped the back of pew in front of him. For months he had been telling himself that he was alright with Bilbo’s marriage—he understood why it was happening, and he thought he had made his peace with it. But now that it was actually happening, he felt as if he was being destroyed; watching Bilbo stand at the altar across from some woman was more painful than dying ever would be.

As the bride and groom came to a stop at the front of the church, everyone slowly sat back down and the music ended. The priest stood and began to address the guests, but Thorin barely heard anything he said. All of his attention was focused solely on Bilbo, standing beside Clara at the altar.

It was a wedding, something that was supposed to be a joyous, momentous occasion. Though he tried to appear happy, all Thorin felt was a profound feeling of loss.

He hardly noticed when the ceremony finally ended, what felt like hours later, and everyone rose to follow the newly-wed couple outside. The reception was to be a breakfast, held at Clara’s family home. Of course, neither Thorin nor any of the other servants would be attending, though Thorin didn’t particularly mind. He doubted he would have enjoyed it, surrounded by people who deemed themselves to be better than him, endlessly congratulating Bilbo and his new wife.

Thorin liked to think that he wasn’t bitter, but still, he despised it—the way Clara could so casually promise to spend the rest of her life with Bilbo; the way she could kiss him in front of other people; the way she could have everything Thorin never could.

He scowled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He sounded so petty and jealous, but it frustrated him to no end that other people could so easily have what he knew was impossible: A life with the person they loved, without the constant fear of death hanging over their heads.

When they arrived back at the townhouse, Thorin retreated upstairs to his room, unsure of what else to do. Most of the other servants were helping with the breakfast, or else had some other work to do. Thorin would not be seeing Bilbo again until later that day, when he changed into his travelling clothes to leave for his honeymoon, and all the luggage had already been packed. Both Thorin and Clara’s lady’s maid would be going with them to Paris, where they would spend the next week. Thorin, in all honesty, would rather not go at all. Of course, he had little choice in the matter—that was the duty of a valet, after all. But the fact that he was actually going on the honeymoon felt almost like someone pouring rubbing alcohol over a fresh cut.

Thorin collapsed onto his bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling that had likely once been white, but was now a dingy, grey colour. A spider was lurking in one of the corners, and he glared at it; he had never been very fond of spiders. He screwed his eyes shut and took in a deep breath, wishing that everything, for once, would just stop, even if it was only for a moment.

◊◊◊

**2 Weeks Later**

Bilbo was exhausted. He felt as if he hadn’t slept properly since the wedding, already a fortnight ago. He supposed it was likely the guilt, still weighing down on his mind; while his wife slept in the next room, Bilbo would lie in bed with Thorin. He was too cowardly, however, to do anything about it, and he could feel the strain it was creating in both his relationship with Clara and with Thorin.

A knock came at the door that connected his room to Clara’s, and he startled at the sudden noise. “Yes?” he called, clearing his throat and setting his book down. It was late at night, and he expected Clara to be asleep. Though they had only been married for two weeks, it was already becoming uncommon for them to share a bed.

“May I come in?” Clara’s voice was hesitant and shy, and Bilbo straightened.

“Yes, of course.”

The door creaked open, and in slipped his wife, dressed in a silk dressing gown she had bought in Paris. “May I speak with you?” she asked, her eyes focused on the ground and her cheeks pink.

“Certainly,” Bilbo replied, his brows furrowing slightly. “Come, sit down.”

She nodded and scurried across the room, settling uncomfortably onto the other side of the bed. There was a moment where neither of them said anything.

“What would you like to talk to me about?” asked Bilbo.

Clara frowned, biting down on her bottom lip. “I, um...” she began. “I really have no idea how to say this...”

“Just say it. It can’t be that difficult.”

“But it is,” Clara argued, looking up at him with an almost desperate look on her face. She took in a deep breath, letting it out as a loud sigh. “I... I know.”

Bilbo looked at her, expecting her to say more, but when she didn’t, he asked, “Know what?”

“About you,”—she paused to take in another shaky breath—“and the valet.”

Bilbo felt his heart sink. “What... what do you mean?” He tried to quell the panic quickly rising in his chest, his hands curling into the sheets.

Clara frowned at him. “You know what I mean,” she said, her tone turning defiant. “You and your... your valet.”

“Clara, darling, I don’t know wh—”

“Oh, stop,” she interrupted. “I know it’s true, and you cannot deny it.” Bilbo looked away, squeezing his eyes shut.

There was a long stretch of silence. “How...” Bilbo asked, after what was probably only a few minutes, but felt like decades. “How did you find out?”

“One of the maids,” Clara explained. She was staring at her hands, picking at her nails. “She caught the valet—”

“Lewis.” Bilbo could feel Clara staring at him.

“Yes,” she said, after a few seconds. “Lewis. She caught him leaving your room, early one morning, before anyone else had woken up.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” Bilbo could hear the desperation and fear in his own voice, and brought a hand up to cover his mouth.

“She caught him more than once,” Clara continued. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Over the course of several months. She was too frightened to talk to anyone else about it, but one morning she got up earlier than usual and, well... found the two of you... to—”

“That’s enough,” Bilbo interrupted. “God, Clara,”—he heard her gasp softly in shock—“please, you have to understand.”

“I... don’t know if I can,” Clara admitted. “I certainly won’t pretend to. But I have known for several days now, and have spent many sleepless nights thinking about it.” She paused, taking in a deep breath, as if reassuring herself. “You love him, do you not? He makes you happy?”

Bilbo looked at her, and then glanced down at his hands. “Yes,” he breathed. “I do love him. Very much.”

Clara reached over, placing one hand on his shoulder. “I know this was not a marriage born of love,” she said. “We married because we both needed to. But that does not mean we cannot be happy together.” She paused. “If this... relationship with your valet—with Lewis—makes you happy, then, my darling, who am I to... to stop it? I am your wife, yes, but I feel in reality that means very little. We have only been married a fortnight, and I realize now that you cannot ever love me, not in the way a husband usually loves his wife.” She shifted, so that she could look at Bilbo directly. “If I forced you from him, it would not make you love me. So why should I?”

“Clara.” Bilbo took Clara’s face in his hands, giving her a sad smile. “My dear wife. What sort of life have I forced you into?”

Clara scowled. “Oh, please,” she scoffed, gently removing his hands and holding them in her own. “You have not forced me into anything. I married you of my own choice, Edmund Holland, and I am doing this of my own choice as well. I want you to be happy, so do stop being so gloomy and depressing.”

Bilbo laughed, despite himself. Though he did not know how well it would turn out in the end, for the moment all he felt was a strong sense of relief—someone finally knew. While she didn’t know the entire story, the fact that she at least knew some part of it was enough, in that moment, for Bilbo.

◊◊◊

The next morning, Bilbo was already out of bed when Thorin arrived, a tray of tea in his hands. He set it down on the reading table and began carefully pouring it out, as Bilbo stared, almost mesmerized, out the window to the garden below.

“Good morning,” Thorin greeted, and Bilbo hummed, nodding.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, several beats later.

Thorin looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course I’m alright.” He took in a deep breath, letting it out quickly. “Really, I’m more than alright. I’m... quite happy.”

“You don’t sound as if you’re happy,” Thorin said. “Did something happen?”

“No, no, I am happy.” He paused and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, before finally turning to face Thorin. “But... I need to tell you something.”

Thorin nodded, as Bilbo took a seat at the reading table. “Of course.”

“Before I do, promise me you won’t get angry, or upset.”

Thorin’s brows furrowed, a look of apprehension briefly crossing his face. “What is it?”

Bilbo took in another deep breath. “Clara... knows. About us.”

The teapot clattered onto the tray, and Bilbo winced. “What do you mean?” Thorin asked, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

“I told you not to get upset.”

“Well, unfortunately I’m a bit upset. I wasn’t exactly expecting that.”

“You don’t _need_ to be upset,” Bilbo argued.

“Please elaborate.”

Bilbo sighed, resting his head in his hands. “What do you think she’ll do, Thorin?” he asked. “If she told anyone, it would likely be just as ruinous for her as for us. There are few people who want it to be known that their husband had an affair, let alone that he had an affair with his valet. You must remember, my love, that status is everything in this world—an arrested valet and a disgraced husband would make her the object of ridicule, and would likely bring harm to her uncle, as well.”

“You believe, then, that she will remain quiet on the matter?” Thorin asked, his doubt obvious.

Bilbo nodded. “I do. There is little reason for her to tell anyone. She wants this marriage to be content, just as I do, and she feels that forcing us apart would only create resentment and mistrust.”

“She’s likely correct,” Thorin murmured.

“So you see, there is no reason for you to be upset,” Bilbo continued, ignoring Thorin’s comment. “All is well.”

Thorin sighed, running a hand over his face. “But how did she find out?” he asked. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

A look of hurt briefly crossed Bilbo’s face. “I would never do something like that without talking to you first. It was a maid who told her.”

“Which maid?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Clara wouldn’t tell me.”

“How can you be sure the maid won’t tell someone?”

“The girl found out months ago, Thorin, but was too scared to tell anyone until Clara arrived,” Bilbo said, sounding exasperated. “I doubt she has the nerve to tell anyone else. But if it would make you feel better, Clara told her that if she breathes a word of this to anyone, she’ll be fired immediately without reference. She’s one of the maids who lights the fires in the morning, so she’s most likely very young. There’s no reason to think she would tell anyone.”

Thorin didn’t respond, and Bilbo sighed. “Please, just trust me,” he said, leaning forward and staring up into Thorin’s face. “This is not as dire as you’re making it out to be. Everything will be fine.”

“I hope you’re right,” Thorin muttered, returning his attention to the tea. He carefully removed the strainer from the cup, before passing it to Bilbo. “If I’m to be honest, though,” he said, sitting down on the chaise longue and resting his head against the window, “I don’t particularly care for this life.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows drew together as he took a sip of his tea. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“I’m a servant, Bilbo. All this Victorian etiquette and propriety is much too stuffy for me and, frankly, I’m tired of it. I’ve spent this entire lifetime bowing and serving and catering to the wishes of others. It isn’t very enjoyable.”

Bilbo hummed thoughtfully, nodding. “It’s certainly a far cry from the life I lead in the Caribbean.”

“From a pirate captain to an English marquess,” Thorin said with a quiet laugh. “Yes, it’s most definitely a change.”

“Sometimes I find myself missing that life,” admitted Bilbo. “Not all of it, mind you. I’m quite content without the murder and constantly fearing for my life. But the freedom that life offered me was quite nice. I could do whatever I wanted, and no one cared.” He laughed. “I also miss the swearing quite a lot. I said ‘God’ last night and Clara seemed rather shocked by it.”

Thorin looked at him and smiled. “You know what I miss? Swords.”

Bilbo laughed again. “Why do you miss swords?”

“They’re nice,” Thorin said with a shrug. “It’s not that I miss fighting in battles, though I do miss that sometimes. It’s more that I miss training with a sword, and having one.”

“Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get one in the next life.”

“I don’t know if that would be a good or bad thing.”

Bilbo gave him a small smile. “Whichever it is, I’m really quite happy with waiting to find out.”

“Yes,” said Thorin, nodding. “I am too.”

◊◊◊

**2 Weeks Later**

It was early evening, and a soft yellow glow was filtering through the windows into the servants’ hall. Thorin sat at the table, carefully sewing a button back onto one of Bilbo’s shirts. Shortly after his arrival at Wybourne Hall, Mrs. Tompkins had sat him down and taught him how to sew. He hadn’t been very good at first, but over the past few months his skills had greatly improved. He was quite proud of himself, really.

He grinned slightly as he tugged on the string one final time and cut it free from the needle. Looking up, he glanced at the clock hanging on the nearby wall. Dinner would be served upstairs in about an hour, and so it would not be long until Thorin was called upstairs to help Bilbo change. He quickly put away the sewing tools that he had borrowed from Mrs. Lynch, and stood to return them to her office.

It was locked, however, so he headed towards the kitchen where Mrs. Bramley, the cook, was busy preparing dinner for upstairs.

“Have you seen Mrs. Lynch?” he asked, sticking his head in through the door. “I need to return her sewing kit.”

“What? No,” Mrs. Bramley replied with a scowl from where she stood in front of the oven. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Shoo!”

Thorin frowned and made to leave, but as Mrs. Bramley opened the oven door there was a violent eruption of flames. The cook cried out and fell to the floor, and Thorin rushed forward, dropping the sewing kit and shirt onto the counter. The oven was in flames, and Mrs. Bramley’s eyes were wide as she crouched on the floor, shaking. Both of her arms were covered in vicious burns, up to the elbow on her left.

“Oh, shit,” Thorin cursed, kneeling in front of her. Both kitchen maids were standing on the other side of the room, looking from Mrs. Bramley to the flaming oven with scared, wide eyes. “What are you doing?” he cried to them. “One of you go find Mr. Wakefield, quickly!”

The smallest of the two girls nodded, rushing from the room. “You!” Thorin said, pointing to the remaining maid. “Come over here! Quick!”

She scurried over to him, her eyes jumping over Mrs. Bramley, as if she was scared to look at her. It was obvious that the cook was in shock, and Thorin quickly removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. “Mrs. Bramley, can you stand?” he asked. “We need to move you somewhere safer.”

“Y-Yes, of course,” Mrs. Bramley murmured. Thorin helped her to her feet, careful not to touch her burnt arms, and moved her from the kitchen as quickly as they could. They settled her onto the couch in Mr. Wakefield’s office, her feet elevated on the armrest, and Thorin instructed the maid to stay with her until she could be brought to the hospital.

“Talk to her; keep her awake,” he told the girl, as two of the footmen ran past. They were followed by Mr. Wakefield and the other kitchen maid, who was talking so rapidly she wasn’t understandable. “Don’t give her anything to eat or drink. Keep her warm, but don’t touch the burns. Don’t put anything on them; just leave them.”

The maid nodded, though she looked terrified out of her mind, and Thorin raced from the room. “What happened?” Mr. Wakefield demanded, his eyes bewildered.

“I’m not sure,” Thorin replied. “The oven seemed to just... burst into flames. I think whatever was inside must have caught on fire. But Mrs. Bramley is very badly hurt, and needs to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I have one of the maids looking after her.”

“I sent Stephen to fetch the fire department,” Mr. Wakefield said, referring to the youngest hall boy. “They should be here soon, likely with an ambulance.”

Thorin nodded, and Mr. Wakefield sighed, pulling out a handkerchief and running it across his sweaty forehead. “I must go explain this to His Lordship,” the butler said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” As Mr. Wakefield turned to go back upstairs, Thorin hurried to the kitchen. Several buckets of sand hung on the hallway wall, and he grabbed one on his way. The fire had already spread from the oven to a nearby cabinet, despite the footmen’s efforts, and the sand that Thorin tossed onto the flames did little to quell them.

“Fill the buckets with water,” he ordered, looking at the two footmen, standing there with empty sand pails.

For the next several minutes, they ran back and forth from the well to the kitchen, tossing the bucketfuls of water onto the fire. The flames continued to spread, however, moving too quickly for them to control. Mrs. Lynch began evacuating everyone from the building shortly before the fire department arrived, gathering them all on the front drive; Mrs. Bramley was carried out in an old blanket.

“You need to get out of here, now,” Mr. Wakefield said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. Most of the room was overtaken by flames, and it would soon spread. Thorin could feel the smoke slowly suffocating him, burning his throat and lungs.

He still had a full pail of water, and so he tossed its contents onto the nearest group of flames, though he knew it would be useless. Mr. Wakefield was still standing in the doorway, an anxious look on his face as he held a handkerchief up to his nose. Thorin hurried towards the door. All around him, the wood of the cabinetry was crackling as it burned. Several of the cupboards had glass panel doors, but all the glass was shattered now, littering the floor alongside piles of coal and soot. It seemed incredible how quickly the fire had raged out of control.

One of the cabinets, pushed up against the wall, began to teeter, the legs too burnt to support it. Thorin didn’t notice until he was beside it, and then it was falling. It crashed down on top of him, the ceramic dishes inside smashing to pieces as he was buried under the burning wood. He felt a searing pain all along his body, and for a brief moment he was brought back to the halls of Erebor, all those years ago when the dragon attacked and his people burned.

He sucked in a deep, panicked breath. His lungs filled with hot smoke, and then the pain became unbearable and the world slipped away.

◊◊◊

Bilbo stood in front of Wybourne Hall, the gravel of the drive crunching beneath him as he shifted from foot to foot. Smoke could be seen billowing from the bottom windows on the east side of the building, where the kitchen was located, though there no flames. Hoses ran from the fire engines parked near the door into Wybourne, where they had been dragged several minutes ago; a small group of firefighters remained outside, pumping water through the hoses.

Mr. Wakefield stumbled suddenly through the front door, accompanied by a firefighter and followed by two footmen. He was coughing, his face black with soot, and Bilbo could see his hands shaking violently as the firefighter set him down gently on the grass.

“Wakefield!” he cried, rushing over to the butler. “Are you alright?”

Mr. Wakefield looked at him with wide eyes, and made to stand up, but Bilbo stopped him, one hand on his shoulder. “No, Wakefield, please,” he said, and knelt down beside him. “Do not exert yourself.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Milord,” Mr. Wakefield said, holding a handkerchief to his mouth as he let out another hacking cough. “It’s only a bit of smoke.”

“Should you go to the hospital?” Bilbo asked, looking to the footmen. “Charles, David, are you both alright?”

Charles nodded, wiping soot from his cheek. “Yes, of course, Milord.”

“Did everyone make it outside safely?” Bilbo looked to Mr. Wakefield, who took in a gasping gulp of air, as if he was struggling to breathe. There was a brief moment, where no one said anything.

“No, Milord.” It was David who spoke, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed.

Bilbo rose slowly to his feet. His eyes automatically began scanning the crowd of people gathered around him, searching for Thorin; he didn’t find him, and he felt his heart drop. He looked back to David. “Who?” he asked. “Who did not make it?”

“Mr. Lewis, Milord,” Charles replied, confirming Bilbo’s fears. “A cabinet fell on him as we were leaving. We tried to help him, but then the firefighters arrived and sent us away. I’m sorry, Milord. He was in an awfully bad state.”

Bilbo felt the world slow around him. He turned, looking back towards Wybourne Hall. The steady stream of smoke had lessened, and more firefighters were emerging from inside. He watched, not even daring to breathe, as one pair stepped outside, a stretcher in their hands. The body on the stretcher was covered in a sheet, once white but now stained black with grime. Bilbo choked back a sob as the body was carried to a waiting ambulance and placed inside. He knew, without a doubt, that it was Thorin, and though he felt like falling to the ground in despair he held himself back.

Blinking away the tears pricking at his eyes, he turned away. His eyes caught Clara’s from across the drive; she looked from him to the ambulance and her shoulders fell, a look of pity crossing her face. She started towards him, but he shook his head, and she stopped. He could feel her eyes on him even as he looked away. He would talk to her, later, when he was ready. For now, he simply wanted to be alone.

He had known this would happen—of course he had known. Nothing had changed, in the end. Somehow he had convinced himself that they were safe; that nothing could hurt them. But no one could evade death. It was always there, lurking around the corner.

The setting sun shone brightly in his eyes as he turned and walked away—away from his smoking house and his wife’s pitying eyes and the ambulance that held the body of the man he loved most. He walked until the people gathered around Wybourne were only dark figures, and then he fell to the ground with a shudder. His fingers dug into the grass, and as he breathed in he could smell the sickly sweet scent of the flowers that grew all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Edmund - Bilbo  
> Eugenia - Belladonna Baggins  
> Gethin - Thorin  
> Mr. Barlow - Dori


	8. Clouds of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canada, 1917  
> 17th Life  
>  _The veteran and the soldier_

**Northern France, April 1917**

The earth was shaking. With every dropped shell and fired gun, the ground above and around Duncan Thornton shuddered. Flakes of dirt trickled from the ceiling and fell into his face, and the men around him shifted nervously. He closed his eyes, and pretended he was somewhere else; the rumbling above him was only thunder, and he was back home, safe with his family.

Someone beside him coughed, and Duncan opened his eyes. It was dark—the nearest lantern was several metres away, and much of its dim light was blocked by the bodies of other men, who looked to Duncan like shadows. Their features were shrouded by the dark of the tunnel, so that he did not who was who.

Nearby, a man began praying. Few of them were talking, and those that did, did so in whispers. It was as if they were too afraid to speak loudly, though no one above the surface would be able to hear them. Duncan took in a deep breath. The tunnel smelled oppressively of cigarette smoke and sweat, and he felt the overwhelming urge to smoke; he had run out of cigarettes the night before.

He wondered what time it was. Likely 5 o’clock in the morning, he decided. They were set to begin their attack on the Germans at 5:30, when they would surge from the tunnels close to the enemy’s lines. Duncan had been in battles before, but that did little to lessen his fear. He had seen men blown to bits by exploding shells, or struck in the face by bullets. He knew it could happen to him, as quickly as it had happened to them.

He leaned back, resting against the cool, chalky surface of the tunnel walls. His hands were shaking violently, and he clasped them tightly together to stop their tremors. He wished he had saved at least one cigarette.

◊◊◊

Weeks later, when Duncan thought back to it, he remembered little of the ensuing battle. Bits and pieces of it came back to him in fragments—his feet slipping in the mud; the wind and the sleet stabbing at his face; the constant sounds of gunshots and screams. He remembered the sun rising, obscured behind grey clouds and smoke, slowly illuminating the horrors unfolding around him.

He didn’t remember the shell falling towards him, but he remembered it going off, only a few metres away. The pain as the flesh was torn from his foot and the shrapnel dug itself into his back seemed to be forever seared into his mind; he remembered collapsing to the muddy ground with a cry, but little else after that.

He woke up hours later, on a cot in a casualty clearing station. His back and leg felt as if they were on fire, and when he tried to move they screamed out in agony. He felt hot; too hot. The world around him seemed blurry, and he thought he could still hear the sounds of battle, muffled in the distance.

A nurse was hovering over him, a concerned look on her face. It sounded as if she was saying his name, but Duncan couldn’t be sure. He could see her lips moving, but it was like he was underwater, and she was above the surface.

He opened his mouth to speak to her, but before he could get any words out he drifted away. For a reason he couldn’t quite understand, he imagined himself being carried out to sea by a gentle current, as sleep and exhaustion overtook him.

◊◊◊

**Nova Scotia, Canada, June 1917**

It was mid-afternoon, and the air was hot and humid as Peter Taggart walked down the sidewalk. The shops were busy, and people were crowding the streets, going every which way and driving past in motor cars. Peter kept a tight hold on his youngest nephew’s hand, making sure that he stayed close. Up ahead, his oldest nephew was expertly dodging those in his path, swinging around the suitcase clutched in his hands.

“Jack!” he called, and the boy stopped and turned to look back at him. “Don’t get so far ahead.”

Jack scowled, but did as he was told, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he waited for his uncle and younger brother to catch up. “You’re slow,” he said, falling into step beside them with a loud sigh. “Are we almost there?”

Peter nodded. “We should be there soon, yes.”

“Why do we have to go live somewhere else?” asked his youngest nephew. “I wanna stay with you.”

Peter frowned, and tightened his grip on his nephew’s small hand. “I told you, Harry,” he said. “I have to go be a soldier, and someone has to look after you while I’m gone.”

“Why can’t we go with you?” Harry asked, sniffing.

“We’re too young,” Jack said, peering around his uncle to look at his brother. “Kids can’t join the army.”

“Then why can’t Papa stay?” Tears were welling in Harry’s eyes, and he wiped at them angrily with the sleeve of his coat. “It’s not fair!”

Though he knew that Peter wasn’t his real father, Harry had always called him Papa. Peter had given up correcting him when Jack began calling him Papa too, though up until then he had always called him Uncle. In a way, Peter supposed he was their father—he had raised them since they were five and one, and was really the only parent they knew. He thought of them as his own children, just as they thought of him as their father.

“I know, Harry,” Peter said, stopping to lift the boy into his arms. He was five years old already, but incredibly small and skinny; he seemed to weigh next to nothing. “But I have no choice. They need soldiers to go fight. You’ll be alright, though. Mrs. Chisholm will take good care of you, I promise.”

“But what if you don’t come back?” asked Jack. His eyes were wide, and Peter could see the fear and worry in them. “George Murphy’s dad went away to war, and he was killed. Victor Collingwood told me he was blown up, and there weren’t enough pieces of him left to bury.”

That, of course, sent Harry into a panic, and he began bawling, screaming about how he didn’t want Papa to be blown up.

“It’s alright,” Peter said, as Harry buried his head in his shoulder. “I’ll be okay, I promise. There’s no need to worry about such things.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ll be back before long,” Peter promised, ruffling his nephew’s hair. “Don’t you worry.”

Harry sniffed, and Peter glanced over at Jack, who looked guilty and was picking at the cracked leather of his bag. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he murmured. At nine years old, Jack often liked to act as if he wasn’t scared of the war or of his uncle going away to fight, but Peter knew he was. He was still only a child, after all.

Peter placed his free hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I know. But you shouldn’t believe what Victor Collingwood tells you, certainly not when it comes to the war.”

Jack nodded, running his sleeve across his face.

“It’ll be alright,” Peter told him softly. “Trust me.”

◊◊◊

Mrs. Chisholm lived in a large, Queen Anne revival style home on a quiet street in the north of Truro. The sign outside proclaimed _Stanby Children’s_ _Home_ in big white letters. Peter had been there twice before, the first time to meet Mrs. Chisholm and the only yesterday to drop off extra luggage for the boys. Mrs. Chisholm was a kind, middle-aged woman, who had run the home with her husband for the past twenty years. They both lived in Stanby’s, alongside the eight children currently in their care, all of whom were orphans or had parents unable to care for them. Jack and Harry would bring the number up to ten.   

Peter’s knock on the door was answered by a young woman, likely in her early twenties, who he recognized as one of two caretakers hired by Mrs. Chisholm and her husband. “Mr. Taggart,” she said with a smile, opening the door wider and stepping aside. “Please, come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

Inside, the house was cool. The caretaker—Nellie, Peter thought her name was—lead them through to the parlour, and left them sitting on the couch while she went to fetch Mrs. Chisholm. Harry refused to leave Peter’s arms, and sat curled up on his lap, clutching the front of his shirt. Jack was unusually quiet, staring solemnly at his scuffed shoes.

“Ah, Mr. Taggart.” Mrs. Chisholm appeared in the doorway to the parlour, her hands clasped together in front of her. She smiled warmly at Harry, who quickly looked away, pressing his face into his uncle’s chest. “You must Harry,” she said, her voice kind and gentle; Harry didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized, as Mrs. Chisholm sat down in the arm chair across from them. “He’s normally not this shy.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” She looked at Jack, who continued to stare pointedly at his feet. “You’re Jack, correct?”

He nodded slowly, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and chewing on it nervously. He pressed himself against Peter’s side, as if hoping his uncle would block him from Mrs. Chisholm’s view.

“And how old are you, Jack?” Mrs. Chisholm asked.  

“Nine.” Jack’s response was quiet and barely audible, but Mrs. Chisholm didn’t press him further.

“What about you, Harry?” she asked. “How old are you?”

Harry didn’t say anything, and Peter nudged him gently. “Go on,” he whispered. “Tell her. She won’t bite, I promise.”

Harry lifted his head to look at Mrs. Chisholm. “Five,” he murmured, before ducking back towards the safety of his uncle.

Mrs. Chisholm’s smile grew. “How wonderful,” she said. “There’s another little boy here who’s five. His name’s Albert.”

“Isn’t that great?” Peter looked down at Harry, who shrugged.

“Are there any who’re nine?” Jack asked, finally looking up at Mrs. Chisholm.

She shook her head. “There is one who’s ten, however, and another who’s twelve,” she said. “I’m sure they’d love to be your friend.”

Jack seemed to brighten at that, and glanced at his uncle with a small smile.

Nellie arrived then with a tray of tea and biscuits, and Mrs. Chisholm told the boys all about what life would be like at Stanby’s while they nibbled on their cookies. It would be much more regimented than what they were used to, but she had no doubt they would adjust quickly. Peter assured them that it was only for a little while, though of course he didn’t know that for sure—no one knew how much longer the war would last. It could only be a few more months, or it could be another three years. In reality, Peter had no idea how long his nephews would have to stay in the care of Mrs. Chisholm.

He felt horribly guilty leaving them there, though he had little choice. He had no family in Canada he could leave them with: Their few remaining relatives still lived in Ireland. Peter had left the country of his birth four years ago, after his sister died and he was entrusted with her children. The war began less than a year later. He had avoided the draft as long as he could, ignoring the disdainful looks of neighbours and strangers, all so he could continue to care for his nephews. When conscription was introduced, however, he was one of the first called to action, and he had no option but to answer.

Mrs. Chisholm stood, smoothing the front of her simple cotton dress. “I’ll leave you now to say your goodbyes, then.”

Peter lifted Harry off his lap so he could stand. He took Mrs. Chisholm’s hand in his own, shaking it gratefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Chisholm,” he said. “I’m very grateful.”

Mrs. Chisholm gave a sad smile. “You leave for training tomorrow, correct?”

Peter nodded.

“I wish you the very best of luck, Mr. Taggart.” She patted his hand. “Nellie will be down in ten minutes to collect the boys. I promise you, we will do our best to look after them in your absence.”

“Thank you so very much.”

She nodded, and turned to leave him alone with his nephews. The door closed quietly behind her.

Peter knelt down, gathering Harry and Jack into his arms. “I don’t want you to go,” whispered Harry.

“I know,” Peter said. “I don’t want to go either, but we don’t always have a choice when it comes to some things. You’ll be alright here, though. You have each other, and Mrs. Chisholm will take right good care of you.”

Harry nodded, his chin digging into Peter’s shoulder.

“When will you be back?” Jack asked. His eyes were full of tears, and Peter reached out to smooth his unruly blond hair. He’d meant to cut it before his departure, but had forgotten.

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted. “But I promise I’ll write every chance I get. Okay?”

Jack frowned, but still nodded. “Okay.”

“Look after your brother for me, will you?” asked Peter, and Jack nodded again. “Stay out of trouble, the both of you. I won’t have you causing mayhem for Mrs. Chisholm or anyone else here.”

“We’ll try,” Jack promised, with the hint of a smile on his face.

Peter pressed a kiss to the top of both his nephews’ heads. “I’ll miss you both terribly. I already can’t wait ‘till I’m back here with you.”

“We’ll be good, Papa,” Harry said, pulling back and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Promise.”

“I know you will be. Listen to what Mrs. Chisholm and the other adults tell you, alright?” Peter smiled.

Jack sniffed, his bottom lip trembling. “Please come back, Papa.”

“I could never leave you boys.” He leaned forward, kissing Jack’s forehead. “Never.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and it opened to reveal Nellie, her eyebrows drawn together. Peter stood, lifting Harry up with him.

“I have to go now,” he said, and Harry began crying again, his face scrunching up as the tears fell down his cheeks.

“No, Papa. Don’t!” He wrapped his small, skinny arms around Peter’s neck, and clung to him tightly.

“I’m sorry, love. I have to.” Peter gently unhooked Harry’s arms and set him down, placing a kiss on his wet cheek. He knelt down to give Jack a tight hug before standing once more. “Be good,” he told them. He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes, but he held them back. “I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can.”

Jack nodded, and went to pull his little brother into his arms.

“I love you both very much,” said Peter. “Just... know that.”

Harry’s cries grew louder as Peter turned to leave. He screwed his eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to take his nephew into his arms and comfort him. He didn’t look back as he stepped out of the parlour into the hallway—he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave.

◊◊◊

**Halifax, December 1917**

December arrived in a cold chill blown in from the sea. Duncan had been home in Canada for nearly two months now; after the casualty clearing station, he had been sent to a nearby field hospital for surgery. The wounds on his back and leg had been extensive, resulting in the loss of his right foot, and when it was determined he would need more time to recover he’d been sent to England, to a convalescent home. There was no way for him to be a solider with a prosthetic foot, and so he’d been honourably discharged and sent home.   

Duncan shivered as he walked around the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. According to the doctors, he was lucky he’d only lost his foot and not his entire leg, though it was unlikely he would ever walk properly again. The winter cold seemed only to make it worse, and as he sat down at the table he winced, rubbing the stiff muscle.

He knew he was lucky—he thought about it every day. How he was lucky that he didn’t die, that the shrapnel that embedded itself in his back didn’t injure his spine and paralyse him, that he didn’t lose his whole leg. Most of the time, however, he didn’t feel lucky; he just felt pain.  

Sighing, he lifted his mug of tea to his lips and sipped carefully. From where he sat, he could see out the window, to the houses that sat around his and down to the harbour in the distance. Ever since the start of the war, the harbour had been busier than ever—there was a constant stream of ships entering and leaving, either heading to or returning from Europe. Most Canadian soldiers headed to the front lines came through Halifax, and he would often see them around the city, enjoying their last bits of freedom before leaving for the war.

He didn’t like to think about how many of them would never return.

Duncan frowned. The war had been going on for over three years now, and it didn’t seem as if it would be stopping anytime soon. He often thought that it would never end—the fighting would go on forever, and the world would never again know peace. The idea seemed plausible, and cripplingly terrifying, when one had actually been to the battlefields of war-torn Europe.

Outside, the milk wagon trundled past, metal cans clanging together in the back and the hooves of the horse beating against the road. Duncan watched as the milkman, an elderly man named Forrester, waved and called hello to those he passed. He was a friendly person, Forrester, and Duncan had known him since he was a young boy, when he had lived only two streets away from his current home with his parents.

The house he had grown up in was owned by another family now—a woman and her four young children. Her husband was away overseas, and had been since the start of the war. He was an army doctor, Duncan had been told. He often walked by their house while the children were outside playing, and the youngest would stop and stare at him for a moment, the man with the cane and the funny walk, until the oldest scolded them for being rude.

Duncan didn’t mind their stares; not really. He had gotten used to them, since his return home. The adults would look at him with pity, and would whisper to each other about what a sin it was, such a young man with such a crippling injury. The children would watch him curiously, and ask their parents what was wrong with him; they’d be shushed quietly, and pulled away.

Sighing, Duncan wrapped his hands around his mug. The tea had gone lukewarm, and he frowned, wondering if it would be worth it to brew another pot.

◊◊◊

The wind blowing off the harbour was biting. Duncan sat on a bench in Point Pleasant Park, the collar of his overcoat lifted to protect his neck from the cold wind and his gloved hands shoved into the pockets. His cane was leaning beside him on the bench, and he could already feel his leg beginning to ache. Though he couldn’t walk for long, he still enjoyed visiting the park. It was nice to just sit, watching the ships in the harbour and the people walking by.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he dug out a box of cigarettes and some matches. He quickly lit one of the cigarettes and held it up to his lips, taking in a deep breath. As he exhaled, the white smoke drifted up to the sky, mingling with the puffy clouds sailing by overhead. Duncan thought of his father—the man had begun smoking when he was only ten, and didn’t stop until he was dead. Duncan had vivid memories of his father sitting in the dark red armchair in their living room, smoking a pipe as he told Duncan stories about his childhood in Cape Breton. He’d been able to blow smoke rings, a skill which had amused Duncan to no end as a child. He’d never learnt how to do it himself, however.

Out in the harbour, a tugboat began pulling in the anti-submarine net. The boat waiting to enter the harbour was some sort of supply ship, and Duncan could see the words BELGIAN RELIEF painted on its side in huge letters. He watched as it chugged slowly into the busy harbour, and the tugboat began to drag the anti-submarine net back across.

A group of soldiers came wandering up the path, laughing and talking loudly. It was impossible to go anywhere in Halifax without tripping over a soldier or a sailor. There were about five of them in the group, all dressed up in their uniforms. They seemed to be slightly older than most of the recruits Duncan saw around the city, meaning they were likely conscriptions. He knew that men who didn’t sign up for the draft voluntarily were often looked down upon as cowards, but he understood their hesitation—he had seen the horrors of war first-hand, and they’d left him without a foot.

He nodded to the soldiers as they passed by him. Though they were older than the usual eighteen- and nineteen-years-olds, they were still young enough: Most looked like they were under thirty. They glanced at him and nodded back, and Duncan could see the fear in their eyes—the worry that they’d end up like him, sitting on a park bench with a cane, unable to walk for too long because of the pain and discomfort of a prosthetic.

And then he felt his heart drop to his feet, as he stared into a pair of all too familiar blue eyes. Thorin paused, and Bilbo felt a split-second of joy before a blanket of dread settled over him. He opened his mouth to say something, but found that no words could come out.

“Taggart!” It was one of the other soldiers. They had stopped, and were looking back at Thorin with expectant faces. “Are you coming?”

Thorin looked from Bilbo to his friends. “I, uh... Just give me a moment.” His accent was Irish, and thick, taking Bilbo by surprise.

“Taggart, come on!” one of the soldiers called, sounding exasperated.

“I’ll catch up with you later!” Thorin replied. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath as his friends wandered away.

“You’re Irish,” was all that Bilbo could think to say.

Thorin looked at him, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“And you have a mustache. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a mustache.” Bilbo was used to Thorin having facial hair, but with only a mustache his face looked bare, and different.

“You’re very observant,” Thorin commented with a smile. He glanced quickly up the path; his friends had disappeared around a corner.

Bilbo chuckled quietly, lifting his half-burnt cigarette to his mouth as Thorin sat down on the bench beside him. Bilbo stared at him for a moment, his emotions torn between happiness and concern.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Thorin said, looking at the cigarette dangling loosely in Bilbo’s fingers. “It’s really very bad for you, though of course no one here knows that yet.”

“I know,” Bilbo mumbled with a sigh. He tossed the cigarette onto the path, crushing it beneath his foot. He glanced at Thorin. “You’re a soldier, then?”

Thorin nodded. “Though I would hardly call myself one. I only just finished basic training last week.”

Bilbo frowned, his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. “When do you leave?” he asked. 

“Friday.”

Bilbo felt his heart sink. “Only two days from now.”

“It’s not long, is it?” Thorin asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. There was a brief pause where neither of them said anything. “Do you think I’ll die over there?”

Bilbo took in a deep breath, his eyes slipping shut. That had been the first thought to pop into his head when he saw Thorin—that he was a soldier bound for Europe, where he would die on the battlefield. “I...” He swallowed, his mouth dry. “I don’t know.”

“It’s an awfully morbid thing to be thinking about,” admitted Thorin with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, leaning towards him. “I was thinking that as well. The moment I saw you... in this uniform... my first thought was that you’d be the one to die, and it would be in the war.”

Thorin looked at him, his face grave. “Have you been there?” he asked, his eyes darting to the cane still leaning against the bench. “To Europe?”

Bilbo nodded. “I have. I lost my foot to a shell.” He lifted his right leg, his pant leg slipping up just enough to reveal the leather brace that kept his wooden foot in place.

Thorin’s face fell. “How long ago were you injured?”

“It was in April. At Vimy Ridge.”

Thorin looked pale, and Bilbo squeezed his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, hoisting himself to his feet and grabbing his cane. “If it isn’t urgent that you rejoin your friends, I’ll take you back to my house and we can talk more over some tea. It’s much too cold out here by the water.”

Thorin nodded and stood. A look of worry crossed his face as Bilbo began walking, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Don’t give me that look,” Bilbo scolded, shooting a glare at Thorin. “I can walk perfectly fine, you know.”

Thorin smirked, though he still looked anxious. “Yes, I’ve no doubt of that.”  

◊◊◊

Bilbo lived in a small, two-storey house in the Richmond neighbourhood of northern Halifax, only a short walk from Fort Needham. From his front window, Thorin could clearly see the train tracks that ran along the harbour front, and the ships chugging through the Narrows and into the Bedford Basin. It was the early afternoon, and the harbour was as busy as it always was.

Bilbo pushed open the front door and gestured for him to step inside. To Thorin’s surprise, the interior was remarkably simple and plain—the furniture was sparse, and there were little to no decorations hanging from the cream-coloured walls. It was a home that looked remarkably unlived in.

Bilbo seemed to notice Thorin’s confusion, and frowned as he led him through into the kitchen. “I’ve only lived here three weeks,” he explained, shuffling about the kitchen as he lit the stove and filled the kettle with water.

Thorin’s brows furrowed. “So you’ve only just come back from Europe?”

“No, I have been back for about four months.” Bilbo said, placing the kettle onto a lit burner. “I lived with my cousin, Alice, for the first few months. I... wasn’t well, and couldn’t have lived on my own.”

“What do you mean you weren’t well?” Thorin had heard stories of soldiers returning from the war, plagued by nightmares and unable to readjust to normal life. The horrors that haunted them were what now made many men unwilling to join up.

“I was barely sleeping,” Bilbo said, the smallest hints of shame creeping into his voice. “When a door closed too loudly or the trains went by I’d become terrified. I struggled to do anything.” He didn’t look at Thorin as he settled into a chair at the kitchen table, his eyes focused on the kettle.

“How are you now?” Thorin asked, sitting down beside him. “Are you better?”

Bilbo frowned, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. “I still have nightmares,” he muttered. “I’ve become used to them, though. It’s been getting... easier.”

Thorin reached over, taking one of Bilbo’s hands in his own. He didn’t really know what to say—he could only imagine what Bilbo had gone through, though soon enough he would be experiencing it as well.

He thought suddenly of his nephews, in the care of Mrs. Chisholm back in Truro. If something were to happen to him in Europe, they would become wards of the state. They could potentially remain at Stanby’s, or they could be moved to another home or even to an orphanage. If they were adopted, there was no guarantee that they would be kept together. Though they had relatives in Ireland, it was unlikely any would send for them. His nephews could remain in state care for years.

It was that thought that frightened Thorin more than war. He wasn’t afraid of the fighting or the trenches or even of dying. He was afraid of what would happen to his nephews if—when—he died.

The screeching of the kettle shook him from his thoughts. Bilbo stood, quickly removing it from the burner. Thorin moved to help, but Bilbo shot him a glare that told him to stay put, and Thorin knew better than to argue.

“I don’t have any sugar,” Bilbo said, fishing two mugs out from the cupboard. “You’ll have to do without.”

“That’s alright.” Thorin watched as Bilbo placed teabags in the mugs and poured the boiled water overtop of them. With one hand on his cane, he brought the cups of tea over to the table one at a time, setting the first down in front of Thorin.

He smiled. “Thank you.”

Bilbo sat back down beside him, carefully stirring his sugar-less tea. Thorin’s smile grew and he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. For some reason, he felt a certain calmness settle over him. They were a country at war, and Thorin was about to be shipped off to fight. He had his life and his nephews to worry about, but in that moment he felt more peaceful than he had in a long time, sitting there watching Bilbo stir his tea.

“I love you,” he murmured, and Bilbo looked up. He seemed sad, even as he smiled, and Thorin wondered if he was thinking about the war.

“I love you, too.”

◊◊◊

Bilbo sat with his head against the back of the couch, his fingers picking at the worn fabric of a pillow. Most of the things he owned had belonged to his parents, salvaged from his childhood home by Alice after his father’s death. The couch he sat on was old and springy, and there was a large tear in the arm of his father’s armchair, pushed into the far corner. The coffee table in front of him was covered in scratches and stains, and the leg often wobbled; Bilbo was waiting for the day when it finally collapsed.

Beside him, Thorin yawned. It was evening now, and Bilbo tried to imagine what the setting sun looked like dancing over the harbour. The blackout curtains were drawn across all the windows, keeping light from getting out. Soon, it would completely dark outside, the entire city absent of any light from houses or streetlamps.

Bilbo looked at Thorin, who was staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace. His forehead was wrinkled, his eyebrows drawn together, and Bilbo leaned towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Thorin turned to face him. “What happened to you, after I died?”

The question took Bilbo by surprise, and he frowned. “In England, you mean?” Thorin nodded. “Does it matter?”

“I want to know,” Thorin said with a shrug. “Were you alright? Were you happy?”

There was a brief pause. “I was happy enough, I suppose,” Bilbo admitted, “after a while. Clara and I had three children, two boys and a girl. I died rather young, as I have a tendency to do.”

“How?” The look in Thorin’s eyes was distant and sad.

“Some illness,” Bilbo said. “Likely cancer, now that I think about it.” He sighed, looking down at his fingernails. There were bitten to the quick, the skin around them torn and red. “You know, it’s interesting. After I was injured, I spent several months in England, in the house of an earl that had been turned into a convalescent home. It felt strangely familiar to me, being in a great house like that, though of course at the time I didn’t understand why. Now I realize it was like being back at Wybourne.”

“Do you miss it? Being a marquess?”

Bilbo thought for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, I don’t; not really. I’ve always preferred a simple life.” He gave a small smile. “I suppose Thomas, my eldest, is the marquess now. He’d be twenty-seven. It’s odd to think about, isn’t it? Your child being older than you.”

Thorin’s brows drew together. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-two. Thomas was only four when I died, in 1895. The twins were one.” He frowned, picking at a mangled nail. “Do you find yourself missing the children you had in a past life? Neither of us have had very many, but...” He trailed off, his teeth digging into the skin of his bottom lip.

“I find I miss them quite a bit,” admitted Thorin, “and what I find saddest is that, once we die, we’ll never be able to see them again. I’ve never married the same person twice, and so I will never have the same children.”

“I regret that I wasn’t able to watch them grow up,” Bilbo said. “I likely wouldn’t recognize them, if I were to see them today.” He remembered how happy he’d been when they were born—first Thomas, then the twins, James and Helen. The happiness had ended rather abruptly when he fell ill, and he supposed his children had no memories of him. His death had brought him back to Thorin, but it had separated him from his children.

He looked at Thorin, and leaned towards him, resting his head on his shoulder. He winced as a sharp pain shot up his back, and he quickly readjusted into a more comfortable position.

“I haven’t asked your name yet,” he realized, twisting his neck so he could look up at Thorin’s face.

Thorin glanced down at him and smiled. “It’s Peter Taggart.”

“Duncan Thornton.” Bilbo reached over and took Thorin’s hand, shaking it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Thorin laughed, and Bilbo felt some of the dread and sorrow resting on his shoulders lift. He hated to be so sad and gloomy, especially with Thorin leaving for the war so soon. There was no knowing when they would see each other again.

A sudden realization burst into his mind and he sat up, his eyes going wide.

“The war!” he cried. “I’d completely forgotten—it ends in 1918! Less than a year from now!”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re right,” he said, his voice and expression stunned. “November 11, 1918. World War I ends.”

Bilbo felt as if he was going to cry. For so long, it’d felt as if the war would never end, but now he knew it would. He laughed, throwing his arms around Thorin’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

Thorin pressed a kiss into the side of his head. “I’ll come back from this war,” he muttered. “For you, and for my nephews.”

“Fíli and Kíli?” Bilbo lifted his head. “Do they live with you?”

“They do, yes,” said Thorin, nodding. “They’re more like my sons than my nephews, in this life.”

Bilbo smiled. “Tell me about them.” He reached up, brushing hair from Thorin’s forehead. He looked tired, but brightened when Bilbo asked about Fíli and Kíli.  

“Fíli’s name is Jack here,” he said. “He’s nine. Kíli’s Harry, and is five,” From the way he talked, Bilbo could tell how much he loved them. “I’ve raised them since they were only wee little things, when my sister and her husband died of typhus. They’re wonderful boys, though they haven’t changed much since you last saw them. I wish you could see them now, though.”

“Are they the reason you didn’t enlist?” Bilbo asked.

“I wanted to,” Thorin said, picking at the lint covering his pants. “I felt like a coward... but I put my nephews first. I haven’t got any family in Canada, and I couldn’t well send them back to Ireland. I knew that if I went overseas to fight in the war, I’d have to put them in a home or an orphanage, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.”

“Where are they now?”

“A children’s home in Truro,” answered Thorin.

Bilbo frowned. “Could you not be exempted from service?” he asked. “You are unmarried, yes, but your nephews are your dependents. You’re their only caregiver. Why would they still force you to serve?”

“I did apply for an exemption, but it was denied. Likely due to the Conscription Crisis. Hundreds of men have applied for exemptions, but obviously they can’t all be granted.” Thorin shrugged. “It’s bullshit, but I have to make do.” He sounded miserable, and Bilbo felt terrible for bringing it up.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Thorin shook his head. “No, no, it’s alright. I don’t blame you for asking.”

They were both silent for a while, the only sounds filling the room the crackling of the fire, and the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Bilbo sighed, closing his eyes. “Will you tell me about Ireland?” he asked.  

Thorin smiled. “Of course.”

Bilbo listened as Thorin talked about Ireland and the life he had there. He told stories about his parents and siblings, and about his childhood in the countryside of County Galway. He talked nostalgically of the rolling green hills and springs near his home, and of the fairy stories his grandmother would tell him when he was a child.

“We were poor, but happy,” he said. “I would’ve stayed and raised Fíli and Kíli there, but I just couldn’t. I wasn’t making enough money. So I sold my father’s farm, and used the earnings to start a new life here.”

Bilbo took Thorin’s hand in his own, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m glad you came to Canada,” he murmured. “I don’t know how I would’ve met you otherwise.”

“We would’ve found a way,” Thorin said with a smile.

“Will you stay tonight?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin nodded, his arms around Bilbo’s waist. “I was hoping you would ask me,” he muttered.

Bilbo laughed, and Thorin launched into a story about a mangy old mutt he and his siblings found when they were children, and how they had begged their parents to let them keep it.

◊◊◊

Bilbo awoke with a gasp. His breathing was heavy, and he could feel sweat beading on his forehead. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up like this, terrified from some nightmare he could only partly remember. This one had been no different than the others—a replay of memories, bits and pieces of battles stitched together in his mind to create a horrifying collage.

He sat up, running a clammy hand over his face. The darkness surrounding him felt oppressive and suffocating, but he resisted the urge to turn on the light; Thorin lay beside him, still sound asleep. Bilbo could hear his calm, steady breathing, at odds with his own. He sighed, tossing off the blanket and throwing his feet over the edge of the bed.

His back was aching and he stretched. He was only twenty-two, but he already felt like an old man—he couldn’t walk without a cane, and his back was constantly causing problems. But he was lucky,  he’d been told; he could walk, his face hadn’t been damaged beyond recognition, he was alive. The nightmares would go away eventually; things would go back to normal soon enough; he just had to put what happened over there out of his mind.

Carefully, Bilbo began rummaging through the nightstand drawer, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. Holding the cigarette between his teeth, he lit it, quickly shaking out the match. Beside him, Thorin stirred. He let out a quiet sigh, and Bilbo turned to look at him. The end of his cigarette burned orange as he sucked in a breath of smoke.

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice was hoarse with sleep as he lifted himself up onto his elbows. Bilbo could just barely make out his outline in the dark room.

He let a stream of smoke escape from between his lips. “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“Are you alright?” asked Thorin.

Bilbo shrugged, though of course Thorin couldn’t see him. “I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?”

Bilbo fumbled around on the nightstand until he found an ashtray. He tapped the cigarette on the edge of it before bringing it back to his lips. “Just a nightmare,” he said, sniffing.

Thorin sat up and leaned over to the nightstand. Bilbo could hear him fiddling with the gas lamp and the pack of matches, until he managed to light the lamp. The room filled with a soft orange glow as Thorin carefully slid the glass cover back into place. He climbed up onto his knees behind Bilbo, wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s torso.

“Was it about the war?” Thorin whispered.

Bilbo nodded, leaning back into Thorin’s chest. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bilbo shook his head. “No... It was no different than any of the other nightmares I have.”

Thorin nodded and brushed his lips up against Bilbo’s shoulder blade. “Do you want me to do anything?” His voice was soft, and Bilbo could feel his chest vibrating as he spoke. Bilbo let his eyes slip shut, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He reached over, smushing his half-finished cigarette into the ash tray.

“Just talk. Tell me one of your grandmother’s stories.”

Thorin took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I’ll see if I can remember one...” He was silent for a moment, and moved to sit with his back against the headboard, pulling Bilbo with him. Bilbo rested with his head on Thorin’s chest, and listened as he told the story of Tuan mac Cairill, a man who was one of the first settlers of Ireland and passed through many lives as various animals.

He fell asleep with the rhythm of Thorin’s heartbeat, and the whisper of his voice in his ears.

◊◊◊

Thorin woke up just after dawn. He could see the faintest haze of light peeking in around the edges of the blackout curtains, and as he stretched he could hear the clock out in Bilbo’s living room chime. Beside him, Bilbo mumbled something incomprehensible and buried his face into the pillow. Thorin smiled, and leaned over to place a soft kiss on the side of his head.

Quietly, he threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. He gathered up his uniform, folded neatly on top of the dresser, and headed to the bathroom to change so he wouldn’t wake Bilbo. It was likely sometime after six, and Thorin frowned as he pulled on his pants and buttoned up his shirt. While it certainly wasn’t... unusual for a soldier in Halifax waiting to be shipped overseas to spend the night away from the barracks, he was always expected back early next morning.

Of course, night-time escapades weren’t actually allowed, but no one seemed to care either way. After all, in just a few months these men would be risking their lives on a hellish battlefield; let them have their small bit of fun. Thorin just hoped nobody would ask him too many questions.

He considered waking Bilbo to say goodbye before he left, but decided to let him sleep. He wrote a short note instead, explaining that he would be stopping by later that afternoon, and left it on the kitchen table. His coat was hanging on a hook by the door, and he grabbed it as he stepped outside onto the front step.

The morning air was cold, and Thorin quickly put on his coat and buttoned it up. Frost covered the grass and the roofs of the houses. It was early December, but there had yet to be any lasting snow, as any that did fall melted within a day or two.

The neighbourhood was quiet as Thorin walked down the street, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. He could just barely see a sliver of the harbour, already bustling with activity despite the early hour. From dusk until dawn, the submarine nets that blocked the mouth of the harbour remained shut. With the sun rising, many waiting ships were now able to enter and leave.

On Young Street, only a few blocks from Bilbo’s house, Thorin caught an early trolley. It was mainly filled with people from the nearby area who worked near the harbour front or in the South End. He sat near the back, watching out the window as the North End blended into southern Halifax. His was one of the last stops, and it was nearly 7:30 when he got off on Spring Garden Road, in front of the Public Gardens.

He walked the rest of the way to his barracks. The streets slowly became busier, with people heading to work and the shops opening up. As the sun rose higher, the sky turned bright blue, and not a cloud could be seen. Thorin let out a sigh, the fog of his breath rising to mingle with the air.

◊◊◊

Bilbo sat at his kitchen table, a mug of lukewarm tea and a piece of dry bread in front of him. He was slowly reading through that day’s newspaper, spread out across the surface of the small table. He’d woken up about thirty minutes ago to find Thorin gone, his clothes missing from on top of the dresser. A hastily written note had been left on the kitchen table, with Thorin promising that he would be back later that day.

Bilbo reached into the pocket of his sweater, where he had stored the note. There was a conflicting tide of emotions within him—he was happy to be with Thorin again, but at the same time he felt a heavy sense of dread. In only one day, Thorin would be leaving Halifax and sailing across the Atlantic to Europe, where he would join the brutal fighting.

He had promised Bilbo he would write whenever he had the chance. Bilbo knew, in the back of his mind, that Thorin would die in the war. He didn’t know how or when exactly, but he was certain it was going to happen—there was no reason for him to believe otherwise. Part of him worried about how he would find out when Thorin died. His next of kin was a cousin in Ireland, and there was no doubt that Fíli and Kíli would find out, likely through a telegram to their caretaker. But there was no reason for anyone to notify Bilbo.

Every weekend the newspaper posted a Casualty List, with a dozen different categories: Killed in Action, Wounded Severely in Action, Wounded Slightly, Reported Wounded, Died of Wounds, Gas Poisoning, Gas Poison Severe, Gassed and Wounded, Killed, Missing. The list could sometimes go on for pages, with more names that Bilbo recognized than he could count on two hands. Thorin, however, wouldn’t be included on that list: He was from Truro, and the newspaper only listed those who came from Halifax.

The other part of Bilbo reasoned that it didn’t matter if he found out when Thorin died or not. If the letters ever stopped, that would likely be a good indication; that was all he would need.

Sighing, Bilbo lifted his mug to his lips, the tea even colder now than it was before. He still drank it, though, not being one to waste tea, no matter how cold. It could be a difficult thing to get a hold of, what with the war rations. Often it was more expensive than he could afford.

Outside, he heard the tell-tale sounds of Forrester’s milk cart coming up the street. He stood, grabbing his cane from where it was leaning against the table, and fetched the near-empty milk jug from the icebox. He quickly threw on a jacket before stepping outside, just as Forrester came to a stop in front of his house.

“Morning, Duncan,” the old man greeted, a warm smile on his weathered face.

“How are you?” Bilbo asked, as Forrester hopped down from the driver’s seat and took the jug from Bilbo.

“Oh, I’m just fine, thanks.” Forrester wandered around to the back of the wagon, holding the jug under the spout coming off one of the cans. “I’ve got some eggs and cream this morning, if you’re interested.”

Bilbo shook his head. “No, that’s alright. Just milk is fine.”

“Of course.” Forrester wandered back to where Bilbo was standing, the milk jug now full. “Would you like me to take this inside for you?” he asked, glancing down at Bilbo’s cane.

“No, I’m alright,” said Bilbo, shaking his head again. “Thank you, though.”

Forrester gave another smile as he handed the milk jug over to Bilbo. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then, Duncan.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

As Forrester climbed back up into the driver’s seat and trundled off down the street, Bilbo returned inside and replaced the jug in the icebox with little difficulty. He had only just sat down, however, when a few minutes later a knock came at his door. He stood and made his way back to the front door, opening it to find his neighbour’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Rose Stainthorpe, standing on his front step.

“Mr. Thornton!” she cried, her eyes wide. “Have you seen the ship? In the harbour?”

Bilbo frowned. “Rose, what do you mean?” he asked. “There are quite a few ships in the harbour.”

“No! Mr. Thornton, this one’s _on fire_!” She threw her arms up into the air, gesticulating wildly. “Come see!”

Bilbo’s frown deepened as he stepped outside. There were dozens of people out on the street or leaning out their front doors and windows, all looking in the direction of the harbour. Just as Rose said, there was a burning ship floating on the water, near the Dartmouth side.

“How long has it been burning?” asked Bilbo, looking from the flaming ship to Rose.

“Just a minute or two. Mum saw it collide with another ship when she outside buying eggs from Mr. Forrester. That’s when it caught fire.”

“Jesus,” Bilbo murmured. He hoped nobody was hurt—the fire was quickly burning out of control, with plumes of steam and smoke shooting up into the sky. Some of the flames were blue, and as he watched the entire ship became engulfed in fire.

“Rose!”

They both turned to see Rose’s mother leaning out her front door, glaring at her daughter. “What are you doing bothering Mr. Thornton?” she demanded. “Get over here!”

Rose smiled sheepishly at Bilbo. “Sorry, Mr. Thornton,” she apologized. “Coming, Mum!”

Bilbo chuckled as Rose ran back towards her house. He remained outside for a few minutes more, watching the blazing ship; blue and orange flames were leaping into the air, and the black smoke seemed to reach miles into the sky. He could see people massing together on the harbour front, and there was a group on the roof of the Acadia Sugar Refinery. People were running down the street, heading to the harbour in the hopes of a better view.

Eventually, the cold became too much for Bilbo and his leg started aching, so he returned back inside. He stood at the window for a while more, watching as the burning ship drifted closer and closer to the Halifax side of the harbour. There were still dozens of people outside, watching with rapt attention or rushing towards the harbour. Bilbo frowned and stepped away from the window. He wandered into the living room, sitting down on the bench in front of an old upright piano. The fire would no doubt be sorted out quickly; firefighters had likely already been sent to take care of it.

The piano was one of the nicest things he owned, despite its age. His grandfather had bought it decades ago for Bilbo’s grandmother, who had taught Bilbo to play when he was young. After she died, the piano went to his mother, who had sent Bilbo for lessons with a real teacher. When his father died, one of Bilbo’s cousins had taken the piano, but after Bilbo returned from the war she’d given it back to him.

He smiled slightly as he lifted the cover, his fingers brushing across the ivory keys. He hadn’t played at all while away in Europe, and so he had been out of practice when he came back home. He’d been trying to get in the habit of practicing every day. Reaching up, he opened the folder sitting on top of the piano and pulled out the sheet music to _Waltzing Matilda_. It was a song his mother had often played when he was younger; Bilbo remembered sitting on the bench beside her while she played the piano and his father sang. His mother had scribbled notes on the music, and her writing could still be seen on the paper, faded only slightly.

Bilbo had learnt to play this song perfectly a long time ago, and could easily play it without the sheet music, but he liked to pull it out sometimes and see his mother’s little notes; it was as if a piece of her still lived amongst the notes and lyrics of _Waltzing Matilda_.

Outside, someone was yelling. He looked towards the window to see a group of children run past, their faces excited. He turned his attention back to the piano. Placing his fingers on the keys, he pressed down, and the first chord of _Waltzing Matilda_ sounded.

The room exploded. The windows shattered and the walls collapsed, pieces of wood and plaster and glass flying everywhere. Bilbo was thrown from the piano bench as the upper floor came crashing down and he was buried beneath the piano. He died instantly.

The explosion was over in seconds. As the dust settled, an eerie silence fell across Halifax.

◊◊◊

Thorin was at the foot Citadel Hill when the explosion happened.

He was with a few other soldiers, walking along the docks when the two ships collided and one caught fire. It was a rather mesmerizing spectacle, with flames that seemed to reach the clouds and a great column of dark smoke. Balls of fire were jumping from the ship into the smoke, where they would pop without a sound.

“Would you look at that!” one of the soldiers, a man named Horne, proclaimed.

“What ship is that?” Thorin asked. It was a couple of kilometres further up the harbour from where they stood, in the Narrows, so all he could really see were the flames and the smoke.

“Not sure,” replied one of the other men, Winslow, “but she sure is burning, isn’t she?”

“Quite a bit, yeah,” Horne murmured.

They continued along the waterfront, their eyes fixed on the ship. People were gathering around them, leaning over the railings in an attempt to see better. Cars and wagons were stopping in the streets, and there were people pouring out of nearby buildings or leaning out of windows. Thorin even saw a group of men on the roof of a building.

They turned left after a while and began heading towards Citadel Hill, hoping that they might have a better view from up high. They could still see the flames and smoke as they walked up the street away from the harbour, and Thorin kept turning to look back at it. The streets were full of people, all pointing and looking at the fire.

All of a sudden, the flames stopped. Thorin turned to see a white flash shoot up into the sky, followed by a blast of wind so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet. Every window around him shattered, the pieces of glass flying everywhere. Though in reality it lasted only a few seconds, to Thorin it felt like eternity until the glass settled and the wind stopped.

There was a heartbeat of silence. No one moved.

Then someone screamed, and that piercing noise broke through the shock. Thorin sucked in a deep breath of air, and it took a moment for him to realize what had happened.

“It’s the Germans!” a woman cried, her hands in her hair. There was a piece of glass stuck in her cheek. “The Germans have attacked us!”

Thorin’s brows furrowed together. “It wasn’t the Germans,” he said. “It was the ship—the burning ship. It exploded.”

“Why would a ship explode?” the woman asked, obviously distraught.

“He’s right,” a man said, looking from the woman to Thorin. “It was the _Mont-Blanc_ , a munitions ship from France. It’s a wonder the entire city isn’t in ruins.”

The woman frowned, and wandered off, muttering something about needing to find her family.

All around Thorin was panic. Most people seemed unhurt, but there were a few with cuts and scrapes from flying debris. He saw one woman lying on the ground, her eyes full of glass.

“We need to report back to the barracks,” said Horne.

“We can’t just leave these people,” Thorin argued, motioning to the injured woman. “We need to help them.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Taggart,” Winslow said, “but I have a feeling that there are more people elsewhere in the city that need our help. We were quite a ways away from the ship, but think of the people in the North End. No doubt the entire neighbourhood’s been levelled.”

It seemed as if the ground suddenly dropped out from under Thorin’s feet. He froze, and felt himself go pale. Bilbo—he needed to make sure Bilbo was alright. His house was in the North End; you could see the Narrows from his front window, less than a kilometre away.

“I need to go,” he said. He was aware of people crying and yelling around him, but it was as if there was cloth over his ears, muffling everything he heard. All he could think of was that he needed to find Bilbo and make sure he was safe.

“What do you mean?” asked Winslow. “We have to go back to the barracks.”

Thorin shook his head. “No, no, I have to go find someone. I need to make sure they’re alright.”

Horne frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “Who are you talking about, Taggart?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just... go back to the barracks without me. I’ll be fine.” Thorin turned and started walking away, weaving his way through the crowded street.

“What? Taggart! Taggart!”

Thorin ignored Winslow’s calls, until he and Horne had vanished into the chaos behind him and their voices were drowned out by everyone else’s. He quickened his pace, turning onto another street that headed north. Though it was only minutes after the explosion, those who were uninjured had already jumped into action. He passed by a fish truck, pulled over onto the side of the road while a man with a face full of glass was helped into the back. A woman stood outside a restaurant, sweeping glass from the sidewalk.

A fire truck raced by, going in the same direction as Thorin. All the trolleys were down, so he would have to travel to Richmond on foot; he was nearly running by the time he reached the northern end of Citadel Hill.

When he reached Cunard Street—ten or twenty or thirty minutes after the explosion, he couldn’t tell—the damage became much more extensive. He could see smoke rising into the sky, only a few blocks away. Toppled power lines lay sparking across the street, and he passed a huge oak tree that had crashed through a house. A teenage boy ran past, his face streaked with tears; Thorin called out to him, but the boy kept running, until he disappeared around a corner.

The further north he went, the worse the devastation became. Bodies began appearing on the streets, and the injuries became more gruesome. People were being loaded up into cars and trucks and onto wagons; anything that could take them to the hospital. The air was filled with the sounds of people crying and screaming. Someone was yelling something about Wellington Barracks, the munitions magazine, being on fire, and that it was going to explode any minute. People began running, herded by soldiers and firefighters, but Thorin kept heading north.

He reached North Street, and stopped dead in his tracks. For a few blocks, there were houses with collapsed walls, some that were reduced to rubble, but then there was nothing—it was as if all of Richmond had been blown away, and all that remained were the power lines and piles of debris. He felt his heart jump to his throat, and he choked back a sob.

What little that was left of many of the houses was burning. There were bodies everywhere, covered in blood. A man was laying, impaled, on a wrought iron gate. Those who could were running around, calling names and sobbing that the end of the world had come. Those who couldn’t limped down the streets, dazed. A black, oily rain was falling from the sky, thick and sticky. It soaked through Thorin’s clothes and clung to his skin, but he barely noticed.

Somehow, he began walking again. He couldn’t remember what street Bilbo lived on, or where his house was. There were no more street signs, and no more landmarks of any kind—everything was gone.

“Bilbo!” he cried, and his voice sounded hoarse in his ears. He racked his brain, trying to think of where Bilbo lived. His house had definitely been further north, past the bridge, not far from the train tracks. Thorin quickened his pace. Bilbo had to be safe—he couldn’t be dead; he couldn’t be hurt. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

“You aren’t supposed to die now,” Thorin muttered. “Not like this.” He could see the tracks in the distance, his view unobstructed by any houses. He turned onto another street at random, and broke out into a run. “Bilbo!” he called again. “Bilbo!”

He could feel tears pricking at his eyes, and his chest was heaving. The air smelled of blood and smoke, but he kept going. He didn’t stop even when his lungs began burning, screaming at him to slow down. He knew he was becoming frantic. Nothing around him was familiar; he couldn’t remember if there had been a tree in front of Bilbo’s house, or how far he’d lived from the corner of the street.

Finally he stopped, leaning forward and bracing his hands against his thighs. His breath was coming in gasps, and as he breathed out they turned to sobs. Thorin crumpled to the ground, his knees digging into the cold asphalt. He buried his face in his hands as his sobs shook his body.

◊◊◊

The worst winter storm to hit in years blew into Halifax that night. Thorin barely slept, though he was exhausted, as the wind howled and rattled at the walls. He had spent the afternoon digging through the ruins, looking for survivours and for the dead. By noon the hospitals were overflowing with people, and a mortuary for the unidentifiable dead had been opened up in a school basement. Newspapers had already begun circulating lists of known survivours and victims. Thorin had checked every list he could get his hands on, looking for Bilbo’s name, with no success.

The storm was still raging the next morning, but Thorin and dozens of other soldiers were back in the devastated area soon after the sun had risen. Now, however, they were mainly looking for bodies—it was unlikely anyone would have survived the night, with the cold and the snow.

It was gruesome work, looking for bodies. Some were in a terrible state when they were found, crushed beneath the collapsed houses. Some were so badly crushed or burned that they were unidentifiable, and so they were sent to Chebucto Road Mortuary, along with any personal effects and a card that said where they had been found.

Thorin almost wished he was on a ship heading for Europe, like he was supposed to be; hundreds of soldiers ready to depart had been held back to help with the rescue work. He didn’t know when they would be leaving. No ships were allowed to enter the harbour, and few were allowed to leave. Halifax Harbour had grown quiet for the first time since the war began.

At noon, Thorin took a break from the digging and went to Chebucto Road Mortuary. Dozens and dozens of cloth-covered bodies were laid out in rows in the basement of Chebucto Road School, on Cunard Street. Each body had a number and a corresponding bag, holding all the items found with the body, a description of them, and where the body had been found. People were shuffling around the room, looking through the bags, hoping to find a friend or loved one.

It was highly likely that Thorin would find Bilbo here, amongst the dead too crushed or burned to be identified by their faces alone. He had yet to see any mention of him in any lists published by the newspapers, and it was possible that no one had yet come to the morgue looking for him. He had dozens of cousins, but most lived in the North End, and could be either dead themselves or injured and in the hospital.

Thorin frowned as he approached the table holding the bags and began sifting through them. Most of the items were generic—a necklace, a wedding ring, a watch, a pair of glasses. This one was found on Columbus Street, that one on Livingstone Back Lane, another on Prescott Street. After nearly half an hour of looking, he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, Bilbo wasn’t there—that maybe he was in a hospital, and no one had taken his name yet; that maybe he was alive. But then he opened one of the bags, and his heart sank.

Inside, was the note he’d written to Bilbo, only the previous morning. It was smudged and splattered with blood, but still legible. Thorin could make out his own name at the bottom of the page, along with Bilbo’s at the top. There was a watch in the bag, as well, scratched and with a cracked face. Two pieces of paper had been placed inside: one was where Bilbo had been found, and the other was a short note— _Victim had prosthetic right foot._

Thorin dropped the slips of paper back into the bag and closed it back up, as if that could hide what was inside. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a deep breath, trying to keep himself from crying. He didn’t know why he had let himself hope that Bilbo might not be dead. It was a foolish, stupid thing to wish for.

Biting down on his bottom lip, Thorin reached back into the bag and pulled out the note—the one he had written to Bilbo. Neither the body nor the personal effects found with it would be released to Thorin, as he wasn’t family, but he would at least take the note with him. Checking to make sure nobody was looking, he shoved it into his pocket.

While he couldn’t take possession of the body, Thorin could at least identify it. That way, if no one came to claim Bilbo, he would at least be buried with a name.

“What’s the number of the body?” the woman sitting at the desk asked, when Thorin went to identify Bilbo.

“103.” Thorin placed his hand in his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the note.

“And the name?”

“Duncan Thornton.”

The woman scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “Are you a family member?” she asked.

He shook his head. “A friend.”

“May I have your name?”

“Peter Taggart,” he replied. He almost felt as if he’d been cheated; he was the one who was supposed to die, not Bilbo. It seemed cruel, for a man to survive a brutal war only for him to die in his own home. “Will you be able to find his family and contact them?”

The woman sighed. “We’ll certainly try, Mr. Taggart,” she said. She sounded tired and worn down; Thorin supposed that working in a morgue would do that to a person. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, his grasp tightening around the note. “Thank you,” he murmured, turning and quickly leaving the mortuary.

Outside, the air was cold, and snow was still falling thickly. Grey clouds covered the sky, and from where he stood Thorin could see much of the devastated area. He let out a loud sigh, his breath escaping from his mouth in a plume of vapour. He sniffed, wiping at his eyes, which were welling with tears. There was no point in crying—before long he would see Bilbo again, hopefully in a time free of war and death.

Until then, there was work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Duncan - Bilbo  
> Peter - Thorin  
> Jack - Fíli  
> Harry - Kíli  
> Alice - Primula


	9. Sail to the Ends of the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> East Anglia, 819  
> 19th Life  
>  _The goatherd and the farmer_

It was summer. Leofwine could hear the bugs buzzing and the birds chirping in the forest behind him, as animals crept through the underbrush. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back so the warmth of the setting sun could fall on his face. The heat of summer was welcome after the cold rains of spring.

He sighed. He knew the rain would not hold off long; it never did, in this country, but it was good for the fields and pastures, and so he would not complain. Drought would only lead to famine, and Leofwine knew all too well how devastating that would be. He had known far too many people who had died of starvation, when the harvest was bad or the summer had been too dry.

He said a quiet prayer for a good yield that year. There had just barely been enough to make it through the past winter, and they had spent much of the later months straddling the line between survival and starvation. No one had died of hunger, however, and for that Leofwine thanked God, but they had been much too close. If the wheat harvest that year was not plentiful, he did not know if they would be so lucky.

The bleating of goats sounded in his ears, and Leofwine opened his eyes. He was resting against a fallen log, and spread out in front of him was a pasture, the grass tall and green from the rainy spring. The pasture was full of grazing goats, a couple dozen or so. Some had begun wandering into the forest, and Leofwine stood with a sigh, grabbing his walking stick from where it was laying on the ground.

He hurried over to the meandering goats, quickly redirecting them back towards the rest of the herd. It was all too easy to lose a goat to the forest, full of wolves and other animals that would rip it to shreds in minutes. If they weren’t watched, half a herd could be lost in one day.

Leofwine glanced up at the sky, squinting as the sun shone into his eyes. It would be dark within an hour or two. He would need to start towards home soon, though he didn’t live far from the pasture; he could see the smoke rising from his house in the distance. Still, he began gathering up the goats, herding them in the direction of home. They could be difficult creatures.

The land he lived on wasn’t his, of course—it belonged to a local thegn, along with the goats he herded. Leofwine gave the thegn a portion of his profits in return for the land and the goats, which he in turn used to earn his livelihood. It did not turn in a great deal of money, but it was enough to survive on.

His plot of land was small, just barely large enough for a home, barn, and a few crops. The land he grazed the goats on belonged entirely to the thegn, and Leofwine was able to use it with his permission. Most everyone in the area worked for the same thegn, save for the shopkeepers in the village, and they were few. They were a community of farmers and fishermen, all raising crops and animals on borrowed land.

Æthelswith and Ecgberht were outside playing when Leofwine arrived home. He waved to them and smiled, quickly herding the goats into their pen. He was careful to tightly secure the gate with a length of old rope, giving it a few good tugs before deeming it suitable.

“Fæder!” Ecgberht ran towards him, and Leofwine turned to gather the boy up into his arms.

“Hello, my son,” he greeted, wiping a smudge of dirt from Ecgberht’s cheek. “How has your day been?”

Ecgberht smiled a wide, toothy grin. “Good!” he said, quickly launching into a long retelling of his day. Leofwine listened with a happy smile. He glanced down as Æthelswith ran to join them, her sandy hair flying loose behind her. Taking her hand, he let her drag him inside, where Cynethryth was waiting.

The interior of their house was simple; it was a single room, with only two windows and a hole in the roof to allow smoke to escape. They had a table and three chairs against one wall, and a bed against the other, above which hung a small loft, storing a second bed. A fireplace sat in the middle of the room, with a large black pot hanging over it.

Cynethryth was standing by the fire, fishing boiled eggs from the pot. She looked up as Leofwine and the children entered, giving them all a small, quick smile.

“Hello,” she greeted, watching as Leofwine set Ecgberht down on the packed dirt floor. “Did you just get home?”

Leofwine nodded. “It has been a quiet day,” he said, and Cynethryth scoffed.

“Not for me,” she said. “The children have been monstrous. Æthelswith knocked Ecgberht onto the ground, and he came running inside sobbing, covered in filth.”

“I would not call that monstrous,” said Leofwine, his eyebrows drawn together.

“It was an accident,” added Æthelswith, looking from one parent to another.  

Cynethryth frowned, her lips were drawn into a tight line. She had become much stricter with the children ever since winter, when the baby had died. She was quicker to anger, and was particularly protective of Ecgberht, who at four was three years younger than Æthelswith. She smiled less often and rarely laughed, and to Leofwine it was as if all her joy had been buried alongside their youngest child.

“No matter,” she said, returning her attention back to the pot. “Come, Æthelswith. Help me with the eggs.”

Æthelswith scowled, but she still nodded. “Yes, Módor,” she mumbled, trudging over to the fireplace.

Leofwine watched her go, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

◊◊◊

**Scandinavia**

The sun had just begun to rise when Einarr started his day’s work. It was still cool outside, and a mist blown in from the sea had settled over everything. The world around him seemed grey as the sun, blocked by rain-filled clouds, slowly began to brighten the sky. He knew the fog would dissipate by mid-morning, but the clouds would likely stay all day, letting out little spurts of drizzle every hour or so. He could feel the dampness already beginning to gather in the air.

He set about his tasks quickly. There was always much work to be done, on a farm such as his: cows and goats needed to be milked; stalls needed to be cleaned; repairs needed to be made; crops needed to be cared for. When that work was done, there was always something else to do, whether that be fishing or training. His days rarely ended before sunset, and always began before dawn.  

His first chore of the morning was to milk the cows and goats. During the summer months, the dairy animals and the horses were kept in a large pasture near the farm, surrounded by a fence so they could not wander off. The sheep had already been herded to a field on a nearby hill, where they would spend the season grazing. In the fall, they would be rounded up and driven back down to the farm.

“Do you need help, Faðir?”

Einarr turned to see his son, Þórleifr, leaning over the fence. His hair was still messy from sleep, and he looked tired; Einarr could see him fighting back a yawn.

“Did your mother send you?” he asked, one brow raised.

Þórleifr looked generally offended. “Of course not!” he argued. “I am a hard worker, you know.”

Einarr scoffed and shook his head. “Come, grab a bucket, then.” He motioned towards the cows waiting to be milked, and though Þórleifr made a face he didn’t protest. He scrambled over the fence into the pasture, grabbing the extra bucket from where it sat near Einarr’s feet.

“Are your sisters awake?” asked Einarr, as Þórleifr knelt down beside one of the cows.

The boy nodded. “Birla and Skírlaug are helping Mother with the vegetable garden.”

“And Ýrr?”

“Mother has sent her to catch some fish,” Þórleifr answered.

Ýrr was the oldest of Einarr’s four children, at thirteen years old. She was a serious girl, and often took charge of her younger siblings, much to their annoyance. She hoped to become a shield maiden one day, and so much of her time was spent training, though of course she helped with chores when needed.

At eleven, Þórleifr was the second oldest. He preferred to spend his days playing and fooling around, rather than working, and could sometimes be lazy—though Einarr hoped to weed that out of him before he grew too old.

“Be careful, Þórleifr,” he said, eyeing his son as he tugged rather unceremoniously at the cow’s udder. Milk sprayed everywhere, with only a small amount landing in the bucket. “Do not be so violent.”

Þórleifr scowled. “This is stupid,” he mumbled. “I hate milking cows.”

“Would you rather milk the goats?” Þórleifr sent him a murderous look, and Einarr laughed. “You are the one who volunteered to help,” he pointed out, “so stop your whining and milk the cow.”

“Yes, Faðir.”

They worked in silence, until all the cows and goats had been milked. Einarr sent Þórleifr to help Ýrr fish, while he carried the buckets of milk from the pasture to the house. Most of it would be made into cheese or butter, a portion of which would then be sold in the town a half hour’s ride away. There was no point in trying to sell anything in the small village they lived in, as everyone there was a farmer and had access to their own dairy.

Einarr found Lofn in the vegetable garden behind the house, pulling weeds from the damp earth and tossing them into a pile. Birla was helping her, in a way, plucking bugs from the leaves of the plants and crushing them between her fingers. Skírlaug was crouched in the grass, playing with a worm.

“Have you finished the milking?” Lofn asked, looking up at Einarr as he rounded the corner of the house.

He nodded. “Þórleifr has gone to help Ýrr with the fishing.”

Lofn scoffed, wiping her dirt-covered hands on the front of her dress. “I doubt he will be much help; Ýrr will likely end up yelling at him and sending him away.”

Einarr shrugged. “Then I will give him something else to do,” he said.

“He was asking about going with you on the raids again,” said Lofn, her face growing serious.

Einarr sighed, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He was set to leave for the summer raids in less than a week. Þórleifr had been asking about going with him since winter, and he was becoming tired of saying no and then explaining why the boy couldn’t come. It likely didn’t help that Ýrr would be going.

“Why can he not simply take no for an answer?” he asked.

Lofn shrugged. “He _is_ your son.”

“He is too young to go on a raid,” said Einarr. “When he is thirteen—when he is Ýrr’s age—then he can go.”

“I am not telling you to take him,” Lofn said. “I agree with you. He does not need to go; not this year. He can whine about it as much as he wants, but he is not to go.”

Einarr nodded in agreement. “I do not think he is happy that Ýrr is going, however.”

“So? Let him be unhappy. He is doing it to himself. Ýrr is the eldest, and so it would make sense that she is the first to go on the raids. She was not going when she was eleven, either.”

Einarr smirked, leaning against the wall of the house. “He will forgive me eventually, I am sure.”

“I might not, however, if I have to spend the summer listening to him complaining.”

“These raids are dangerous, Lofn,” Einarr said. “You know that as well as I.”

Lofn scowled at him. “Of course I know that,” she snapped. “I am not an idiot, Einarr.” She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “What are you doing standing there? If you did not come here to help I am sure there is something for you to do elsewhere.”

Einarr straightened, casting a wide-eyed, chastised look at Birla and Skírlaug, who giggled. He nodded at Lofn, and turned to walk back to the front of the house. He understood that she was simply worried about Ýrr; she had not been too keen to allow their oldest daughter to go with him to England, though Einarr had eventually persuaded her. He understood her fears, but he knew Ýrr to be a capable girl. She would not do anything foolhardy or risky, as he was sure Þórleifr would, were he in her position.

He could see the two of them in the distance, up to their knees in the ocean water with fishing spears in their hands. Ýrr looked as if she was explaining something to Þórleifr, who seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated. Einarr watched them for a moment, grinning, before going off to check on the crops.

◊◊◊

**East Anglia**

Leofwine was lying on the ground, two hands behind his head. All around him, he could hear the bleating and shuffling of the goats, and the rustling of the wind through the trees. Up above, the clouds were sailing past, large and white against the cerulean sky. Leofwine watched them, his eyes squinting slightly from the brightness of the sun.

When he was a child, he had thought that Heaven existed up amongst the clouds. He would often look up at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of St. Peter’s gate or of the angels, before his mother had told him that Heaven could not be seen by those who still lived on Earth. Still, he enjoyed watching the clouds wander past; he often thought of the places they had been, and the sights they must have seen. It helped him to pass the time.

Leofwine had been born in the boggy lands near the shores of East Anglia, and had never left them. He had never been further west than the monastery at Cnobheresburg, and no further north than the one at Dereham. He had yet to travel south of Blythburgh, and he doubted he ever would. The kingdom of Essex lay to the south, with Mercia to the east; the King of Mercia, Coenwulf, ruled over both his kingdom and East Anglia, and had for several decades. Leofwine had never seen either country; and it was unlikely he would ever get the chance to.

There was no reason for him to travel—it was an unnecessary risk. Yet he still often found himself thinking of such things; of seeing villages outside his own, and beholding the great monasteries that peppered the landscape of his country. Cynethryth called his dreams foolish, and he knew she was right. There was no feasible way he could ever travel to such places; he needed to remain there, in his small village, caring for his goats and his family.

He frowned at the thought of his family. Things had not been the same since the passing of Baby Godescealc, five months ago. Cynethryth continued to mourn his death deeply, and Leofwine felt as if fever had robbed him of both a son and a wife.

Godescealc had not been the first child they had lost, either. After Æthelswith was born, they had had another little girl, Heregyth, who had died when she was only four months old. Then Ecgberht was born, and after him Sigefried, who had made it to his first birthday before dying. Then there was Godescealc, and as he approached his second birthday Leofwine and Cynethryth had become confident that he would survive. Only a few months before, however, he had fallen ill, and died not long after. All three had been lost to fever.

It seemed that with each death, Cynethryth become more and more grief-stricken. In the days and weeks following Godescealc’s death, Leofwine had heard Cynethryth praying and asking God why He had taken away so many of her children. It seemed to Leofwine that their lost children were always on her mind, weighing her thoughts and keeping her from truly enjoying the ones that had survived, and continued to live.

Leofwine of them often, as well, and wondered what they would be like had they survived. But they were dead, and being sad would not bring them back.

Standing, he stretched. A gust of warm wind blew up the hill into his face, and in the distance he could see a group of birds flying over the treetops of a forest, swooping and dancing in the air.

◊◊◊

**Scandinavia**

“Uncle! There you are!”

Einarr turned at the sound of his nephew’s voice, searching through the crowd gathered by the docks until he caught sight of a familiar blond head. “Hávarr!” he cried, reaching out and gripping his nephew by the arm. “Look how you have grown!”

Hávarr grinned. He was much taller than when Einarr had seen him last, several months ago, and he now had a true beard, his cheeks covered in scruffy blond hair. “How has the farm been?” he asked.

Einarr shrugged. “As it always has been.”

“And my cousins?”

“Troublesome,” Einarr said with a smirk.

“Ýrr has come with you, has she not?” asked Hávarr, shuffling out of the way of a man carrying a large sack. They were standing near the shore of a large town that sat on a bay; dozens of ships bobbed on the water, while others were docked and being loaded with supplies. The beach was a bustle of activity, with people trying to load the ships in time for them to depart for England tomorrow morning.

Einarr nodded. Þórleifr had demanded right until the very end that he go with them, but Einarr had staunchly refused. The boy had stomped off after that, with only a grumbled farewell for his father and sister. Lofn had told Einarr to take good care of their daughter, and to ensure that she did not get hurt; Einarr could tell that, even then, she was relunctant to allow Ýrr to go.

“Where is she?” Hávarr asked.

Einarr motioned to a nearby ship. Ýrr could be seen standing on the deck, helping to load the boat with supplies. Her dark hair had been pulled up into a braid, and she wore the clothes of a shield maiden. Einarr felt a swell of pride every time he looked at her.

“And where is your brother?” he asked, his attention going back to Hávarr.

Hávarr shrugged. “He is somewhere, off doing something; likely talking with an old friend. I suspect he shall turn up soon.”

Einarr scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “He has not been giving your mother too much trouble?”

“Of course he has,” Hávarr replied with a laugh. “But she is well; she worries, as she always does—more for Tóti than for me.”

Hávarr’s mother was Einarr’s younger sister. She was a stubborn, hot-headed woman, but one of the best that Einarr knew. Her husband had died during a raid three years ago, and she had cared for her two sons by herself since then, with almost no help from anyone. She was a fearsome shield maiden, and had taught Ýrr much of what she knew, but she had not been raiding since her husband’s death. Everyone knew and accepted the dangers of raiding, but for Ragnví, they did not become a reality until that summer. Einarr had been trying to convince her to return to England, but she refused; her time there was done, she said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Einarr caught sight of a familiar dark head making its way through the crowd. He turned, catching his youngest nephew just as he rammed into his side.

“Hello, Uncle!” Tóti cried, a wide smile on his face. “It is good to see you again!”

“You as well, Tóti,” Einarr said with a chuckle. His younger nephew never failed to remind him of a dog, eager and overly-excitable.

“Are you ready to return to England?”

Einarr nodded. “Þórleifr was begging me to take him along,” he said, and Tóti laughed.

“He is eager, then? I do not blame him. I remember being very excited the first time I went on a raid.” He smiled, and Hávarr laughed.

“And then we got there and you were terrified,” he said.

Tóti glared at his brother, punching him in the arm. “Shut your mouth.”

“Ýrr will be much braver, I should think,” said Hávarr with a smirk, reaching out to block Tóti’s fists.

“She is excited, that much I know to be true,” Einarr said. “Of course, she does not show it much. I think mostly she is glad to be away from her siblings.”

Tóti broke out into a wide grin. “Ah, but now she will have to put up with us!” he said, throwing an arm across Hávarr’s shoulders, seemingly forgetting his grievances. His brother scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You will be unhappy to know I find you significantly less annoying than my brother and sisters,” Ýrr said, appearing suddenly behind Einarr. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she smirked at her cousins.

“Whoa! Is that you, Ýrr?” Tóti pulled away from Hávarr, rushing forward and placing his hands on Ýrr’s shoulders. “You have grown so much! I hardly recognize you!”

Ýrr rolled her eyes in a way that made her look strikingly like Hávarr, and pushed Tóti’s hands away. “You saw me only a few months ago. I have not changed that much.”

“But you have,” Hávarr said, leaning forward and resting his elbow on Tóti’s shoulder. “You see, you have grown fatter—”

“—and shorter,” Tóti interjected.

Ýrr glared at the two, and kicked them both in the shins, in quick succession. They let out strangled cries of pain, and Tóti nearly fell to the ground as he rubbed at his leg.

“So vicious!” he cried.

“And violent!” Hávarr added.

“Idiots...” Ýrr muttered, before turning and walking away.

Einarr laughed, clapping a sympathetic hand on his nephews’ shoulders.

◊◊◊

**East Anglia**

The sky was darkening quickly. Leofwine leaned against the wall of his house, watching as Æthelswith and Ecgberht run around, enjoying the last bits of daylight. The ground was soggy from that morning’s rain, and their feet and the hems of their clothing were splattered with mud. Leofwine’s own shoes were caked with muck, and brown dirt was gathered beneath his fingernails. The air around him was hot and humid, despite the setting sun.

He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. Cynethryth was inside, mending clothing, and Leofwine could hear her cough through the open doorway. She had been feeling poorly for the past several days, and he was beginning to worry. She seemed to be getting worse, instead of improving. He had bought medicine for her in the village a few days ago, but it had done little to help.

He frowned. Illness had been travelling through their village for the past fortnight, and already several children and elders had died. Cynethryth worried for Ecgberht and Æthelswith, but now Leofwine worried for his wife. She was relatively young and healthy, and while such illnesses mainly claimed the very young and the elderly, it was not impossible for it to take her, as well.

“Æthelswith! Ecgberht!” he cried, straightening. The children stopped, and looked towards their father. “Come inside. It will be dark soon.”

Æthelswith nodded and grabbed Ecgberht’s hand, pulling him back towards the house. Leofwine followed them inside, closing the door behind him. Cynethryth looked up as they entered, and shivered. She was sitting near the fire, with an old blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her skin looked pale, save under her eyes, where it appeared dark and bruised.

“Cynethryth, you should be in bed,” Leofwine said, walking over to kneel beside her. The air inside the house was hot and stuffy, and he placed a hand to her forehead; her skin was damp and feverish to the touch. “You are unwell.”

She didn’t protest as he took the sewing from her hands and set it aside. Her condition had drastically deteriorated since that morning, and she clung to his arms as he helped her to stand. Her legs shook as he led her to bed, Æthelswith and Ecgberht watching from the ladder that led to the loft. Cynethryth sat down on the bed with a tired sigh, her eyes slipping shut as she lied down. Leofwine forehead creased with worry.

“Æthelswith.” He turned to face his daughter, who hurried over to him. She looked frightened, her eyes darting between her mother and her father. “I need you to go fetch your aunt Heahburh. Tell her that your mother is very ill, and that she must come immediately.”

“Will Mother be all right?” Æthelswith’s voice was quiet, and Leofwine placed his hands on her shoulders, kissing her forehead.

“Yes, my dear,” he said, “but you must hurry.”

Æthelswith nodded, and quickly disappeared through the door. Cynethryth’s sister, Heahburh, did not live far from them, on a nearby farm with her husband. She had been a common feature in their household, in the days and weeks after Godescealc’s death.

Leofwine knelt by the bed, smoothing Cynethryth’s damp hair from her flushed face. Ecgberht, leaning against the ladder, began to cry. Cynethryth attempted to sit up, her arms outstretched for her son, but Leofwine gently pushed her back down.

“No, you mustn’t,” he whispered. He stood, gathering Ecgberht into his arms and carrying him back towards the bed. “It’s alright,” he soothed. Cynethryth reached out, taking Ecgberht’s small hand into her own and holding it to her lips.

“My son,” she whispered.

“Shh.” Leofwine adjusted Cynethryth’s blankets, resting one hand against her warm cheek. “Sleep. Heahburh is coming to look after you.”

Cynethryth nodded, her eyes closing once more. Her hand still holding Ecgberht’s, she soon fell into a fitful sleep, while Leofwine watched over her, waiting for his daughter and sister-in-law to arrive.

◊◊◊

It was completely dark outside when the door opened to reveal Heahburh, followed closely behind by Æthelswith. She rushed forward to her sister’s bedside, falling to her knees.

“How long has been like this?” she asked. Æthelswith stood by the door, her hands twisting the front of her skirt.

“She has been ill for the past few days,” Leofwine explained. “But she worsened this evening. I went outside with the children for an hour or two, and when I came back inside she had grown feverish.”

Heahburh nodded, her eyes wrinkled in concern. “I will look after her,” she said, looking at him. “You, care for your children, and pray. God will give Cynethryth the strength to pull through this.”

Leofwine stood with a nod. Ecgberht had fallen asleep in his arms, and so he carefully lifted him to his bed in the loft. Æthelswith stood at the bottom of the ladder, tears welling in her eyes.

“Is Mother going to die?” she asked, as Leofwine descended.

He looked at her, and frowned. “I do not know,” he admitted, and Æthelswith’s bottom lip quivered. “We must put our trust in God, and hope that He will save her. Say your prayers well, my daughter, and they will be answered. Sleep knowing that God watches over us all.”

Æthelswith nodded, and Leofwine leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her small frame. He did not know how he would cope if Cynethryth died. His children were too young to be without a mother, and he could not care for them on his own.

He sent Æthelswith to bed. Heahburh remained kneeling at Cynethryth’s bedside, mopping her sister’s brow and feeding her medicine. Every now and then, Leofwine could hear her whisper a quiet prayer.

He himself spent most of the night praying. While his children slept and his sister-in-law healed, Leofwine sat crouched on the floor in front of a simple bronze crucifix, praying to God to spare his wife. Heahburh eventually fell asleep on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket and lying atop a fur. Slowly, the fire began to die down, and when it was little more than embers Leofwine finally left his cross and climbed to the loft, where he slept beside his two children.

◊◊◊

**Scandinavia**

They set sail early in the morning, shortly after the sun had risen. Ýrr sat curled up by her father’s feet as they glided across the bay towards open water, a fur wrapped around her shoulders to protect against the chilly wind. They were surrounded by dozens of other ships, all covered in shields painted with the colours and symbols of the jarls. Einarr watched as the town disappeared behind them and the cliffs surrounding the bay fell away into the ocean. Behind him, Tóti was sitting with his back against the side of the ship, carving some sort of animal out of a block of wood. Hávarr was at the oars, propelling them forward, towards the sea.

“What is England like, Faðir?” Ýrr looked up at him, the wind blowing strands of loose hair about her face. She looked tired, and Einarr suspected she would soon be asleep; these voyages were boring, and often long. There was little to do besides row, sleep, and watch the ocean pass by.

“It is not a country entirely unlike our own,” Einarr said, settling down onto the floor beside her, where the wind was less harsh. “There are forests, and rivers, and hills. Their land is fertile; it easy to grow crops and to raise animals, much easier than on our own land. They have large settlements and towns, where the buildings are made of stone. The greatest of these buildings are the ones where they worship their god; they are often filled with gold and valuable treasures. Their priests are unable to defend themselves, and so it is very easy to attack them.”

Ýrr smiled. She had heard all this before, of course. The raids on England had been happening for several years now, and the wealth that could often be found in the stone halls of their kingdoms was well-known. One simply had to find them.

“Most of their people are not fighters,” Tóti said, looking from his carving to Ýrr. “They do not know how to use weapons, and most do not even have any. They have no way of defending their homes, besides hiding and praying to their god.”

“Why do they worship different gods?” Ýrr asked, her forehead creasing in confusion. Stories were often told about the Anglo-Saxons and their weak, false god; they were humourous tales, used to poke fun at the strangeness of the Christian religion.

“It is because they are fools,” Einarr said. The Christians expected their god to protect them—to look over them and keep them safe, when they could not protect themselves.

The ship jostled as they sailed over waves. Sea water sprayed over the sides, moistening Einarr’s face. He could taste the salt on his lips, and smiled sympathetically as Ýrr burrowed deeper into her furs.

“Get used to it, cousin!” Tóti said with a smirk, reaching over to ruffle her damp hair. “This shall be your life until we reach England.”

◊◊◊

**East Anglia**

Cynethryth died the next day. Leofwine returned home in the evening to find Heahburh at the door, her eyes red and her face grave. Neither of them spoke; she simply shoke her head, and he knew what had happened. It felt almost as if the world dropped away beneath his feet, as his mind struggled to understand the levity of the situation. How could this have happened? She was healthy only last week, and now she was dead. His children were without a mother, and he was without a wife.

He stumbled inside, his eyes stinging with tears. Æthelswith was kneeling on the ground beside Cynethryth’s body, covered already by a funeral shroud. Leofwine could see Ecgberht peering over the edge of the loft, his face confused and scared. Æthelswith looked up at the sound of the opening door, and ran to her father with a loud sob. He enveloped her in his arms, lifting her so that her head rested on his shoulder; though she was seven, she was light and easy to carry.

“Fæder,” she cried, her breath coming in heaves.

“I know,” he muttered, a lump gathering in his throat as he stared at the covered body of his wife. His mind reeled, already thinking of the coming days and weeks. They would bury Cynethryth, but then what? Heahburh had her own family to care for; she could not spend her days looking after her dead sister’s children.

But neither could Leofwine. If he did not work, they would lose their house and their livelihood. His children would starve to death on the streets, and he surely would as well. He clamped his teeth together, forcing himself to look away from Cynethryth’s body. He would figure something out, find a way for it to all work—he would have to.  

He set Æthelswith down, his fingers brushing the tears away from her cheeks and smoothing her tangled curls. Her hair was his, a mop of curls the colour of dry sand, but the rest of her was Cynethryth’s. His heart ached to look at her, with her mother’s dark brown eyes and pointed nose. She would grow up with only a few fleeting childhood memories of the woman who had raised her.

Leofwine looked up to the loft, where Ecgberht was still sitting, his head resting in his small hands. It was unlikely he would have any memory of Cynethryth, and Leofwine felt he was suffocating in the unfairness of it all. God had taken his wife away, deprived his children of a mother, and he couldn’t understand _why_. It didn’t make sense, to take a woman away from her children when they were so young. He felt a surge of anger build up within him—anger at God, at Cynethryth for dying and leaving him alone, at himself.

Ecgberht began crying, and the anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. There was no point in being angry—it would not bring Cynethryth back; it would not change what had happened. She was dead, and Leofwine would need to learn to live without her.

◊◊◊

The ships landed in a small bay, the land around it flat and covered in trees. Einarr jumped over the side of the ship as it scraped against the bottom of the cove, his feet splashing into the water. He nearly stumbled, unused to solid ground after the rocking of the ship, but he managed to catch himself before he fell. He looked up, watching as Ýrr struggled to climb over the side. She landed in the water on shaky legs, and Einarr reached out to steady her.

He grinned, squeezing her shoulder. “You survived your first journey to England,” he said, and she gave him a tired smile. She had not slept well on the ship, with the constant rocking and snoring. Einarr was surprised she had not strangled Tóti in his sleep, or thrown him overboard.

“I will be glad to sleep on solid earth,” she said, stifling a yawn.

They made their way to the shore, where dozens of men and women had already gathered. They would make their camp in the forest, hidden from any nearby roads or villages. Einarr looked around, surveying the country that surrounded him. The forest lay not far from the beach, and if they had landed in the correct spot there should be a bog just beyond its trees. They had learnt of a monastery in the area during their last raids, one that should be full of gold.

“Are you excited, cousin?” Tóti appeared behind Ýrr, throwing his arm over her shoulders. He wore a wide grin, and shook his cousin, as if he could make her excited.

She scowled at him. “Why should I be excited?” she asked, shrugging away from his touch and glancing at her father. “I am not even allowed to fight.”

Einarr raised his eyebrows. “No, you are not,” he said. “I told you this a long time ago. You will be staying at the camp. When you are older and have more experience, then you can join the raids.”

“But how will I get more experience if I do not fight?” asked Ýrr, frowning.

“You are not older yet, my daughter,” Einarr pointed out, and beside Tóti, Hávarr grinned.

“Listen to your father,” he said, poking at Ýrr. “You should not be so eager to join the fight.”

Einarr gave his daughter a sympathetic smile, placing one hand on her shoulder, but she simply glared back at him.

“Tóti said that these people are not warriors,” she argued. “They do not know how to fight. They will be no threat to me.”

“Ýrr.” The smile slipped from Einarr’s face as he turned to face his daughter. “Do not long for battle and death. It will find you eventually. You need not be so anxious to take lives, or to risk yours.”

Ýrr frowned, looking down at the sandy ground between her feet. “I understand,” she muttered.

“One day, you will fight,” said Einarr, gently patting Ýrr’s cheek, “but not today.”

◊◊◊

The camp was set up by nightfall, a village of tents and campfires laid out amongst the trees. The sound of laughter rang out through the forest, as people ate, drank, and told stories. Einarr sat with his back against a large oak, watching the smoke of the fire in front of him rise up and disappear into the leafy boughs above. Hávarr and Tóti lounged nearby, telling some wild story that Einarr was only partly listening to.

A short while ago, scouts had returned from an expedition with news of a nearby village. It was large enough, they said, and it would not be difficult to find from the villagers how far away the monastery was. There were several amongst them who spoke the language of the Anglo-Saxons, with enough knowledge to find out the necessary information, so it would be easy enough to extract the monastery’s location from the farmers and shopkeepers who no doubt populated the village.

They would attack in the morning, shortly after the sun had risen. They would not be sending their full force to raid the village, but rather a small group, among which would be Einarr. No one expected to find anything of much value in the homes; these people were poor, with few possessions. Still, they would be searched—food was always a necessity, and it was likely these people had animals and stores of grain that could be taken. No doubt some of the villagers would be taken as slaves, as well, to be sold for a respectable profit when they returned home.

The people sitting around the fire burst out into laughter, and Einarr looked up, drawn from his thoughts. He had not been paying enough attention to know what they were laughing at, but judging from the looks on his nephews’ faces it was likely a part in their story, one Einarr had no doubt heard before. Beside him, Ýrr yawned, and he reached over to tug playfully at her ear. She shot him a look, and he wondered suddenly when she had grown so old. He could remember so clearly the day she was born, nothing but a small bundle wrapped up tightly in her mother’s arms.

“Go to bed, if you are tired,” he said, slinging an arm across her shoulders. She had grown taller over the past year or so, and where her head once reached his chest it now climbed above his shoulder. Lofn often joked about how, soon enough, she would be taller than him.

Ýrr shook her head, pulling her knees up to her chest and tucking them under her chin. “Not yet.”

Einarr smirked, ruffling her hair as Hávarr and Tóti launched into another story about, this one about the time they stumbled upon a massive brown bear while hunting.

◊◊◊

With the morning came rain. Leofwine woke feeling exhausted, in a bed that was much too large. Cynethryth’s body had been taken away the night before, to be prepared for burial. The funeral would be in two days. Leofwine wished desperately that he could remain in bed, but already he could hear Æthelswith and Ecgberht stirring above him, whispering quietly to each other.

Running a hand over his face, he sat up. Outside, a light drizzle fell down from the sky, creating puddles of mud and dampening everything, though the warmth of summer still clung to the air. Leofwine stood with a sigh, and Æthelswith stuck her head out over the side of the loft.

“Good morning,” she peeped.

Leofwine turned to smile at her. “Good morning,” he replied. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded, and hurried to scramble down the ladder. Ecgberht was quick to follow her, and they sat themselves down at the table. Leofwine placed bread and freshly picked plums down in front of them, and they quickly said their prayers before beginning to eat.

“Will you be going up to the field with the goats?” Æthelswith asked, tearing a chunk from the loaf of bread.

Leofwine shook his head. “Cenric will be taking them.” Cenric was the fifteen-year-old son of his cousin, who lived on the other side of the village. His own father was a shepherd, and so he had offered to take care of Leofwine’s goats until he was able to continue work. He hoped it would not be long—only a week or so, until he figured out what to do with Æthelswith and Ecgberht during the day.

Æthelswith nodded, but Ecgberht frowned. “When is Mama coming back?” he asked, looking from his sister to his father. Leofwine’s heart sank to his feet. Ecgberht had been struggling to grasp the concept that his mother was gone, forever, and every time he asked such innocent questions Leofwine felt his heart shatter.

“She has gone to be with God now,” he explained, wiping away a bit of plum juice that had dribbled down Ecgberht’s chin. “She is at peace in Heaven.”

“Will God give her back?”

“That isn’t how it works,” said Æthelswith, frowning at her brother. “When you go to be with God, you stay with Him forever. Like Godescealc and Sigefried.”

Ecgberht’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“It is difficult to say why,” said Leofwine, kneeling down so that his eyes were level with Ecgberht’s, “but it is God’s will. Just know that your mother will always be watching over you, and you will see her again one day.” He looked to Æthelswith, who was staring at the table, her face twisted as she tried to keep herself from crying. He reached over to comfort her, but Cenric’s voice sounded suddenly outside, stilling him.

“Cousin!” Cenric cried, and Leofwine stood. He cast a quick glance at his children, before hurrying to the door and throwing it open. Cenric stood by the pen, a worn cloth bag tossed over his shoulder.

“Leofwine,” he greeted, bowing his head and giving him a small smile. “I trust you are well?”A brief pause, and then, “As well as one can be, in these circumstances.”

Leofwine nodded. “I am fine,” he replied. “And you?”

“Well enough.” There was a moment where neither of them said anything, and Cenric rested his hand on the thin wattle fence of the fold.

“Thank you for doing this,” Leofwine said quickly, motioning to the goats wandering around the pen. “It is very kind, and very helpful.”

Cenric’s smile widened as he nodded. “It is of no trouble, cousin. I know you would do the same for my family, were we in your situation.”

“I would,” agreed Leofwine. He glanced over his shoulder, up past a small gathering of trees to where the grazing field sat. “You know how to reach the pasture?”

Cenric nodded again. “You have taken me there before. It will not be difficult to find.”

“Then I shall keep you no longer. There is much to be done.”

Leofwine watched as Cenric opened the fold and herded out all the goats, sending them in the direction of the field. They knew where to go, and so ran ahead happily, never straying far from the rest of the herd.

“God bless you, cousin,” Leofwine said, placing one hand on Cenric’s shoulder as he passed by.

“And you.” Cenric gave him a single nod, before wandering up the hill after the goats. Leofwine watched him go, until he disappeared beyond the trees.

◊◊◊

Einarr crept silently through the forest, an axe gripped tightly in his fist. It was mid-morning, the sky above a steely grey. A light misting rain was falling, dampening his clothes and coating everything in droplets. He could hear the shuffle of movement around him as the rest of the raiding party slunk forward, the snapping of twigs beneath their feet and the clunking of their weapons mingling with the other sounds of the forest. He was near the front of the group, behind only the jarl who was leading them.

“The forest will end soon,” said one of the women walking alongside Einarr. She had been amongst those who had scouted out the village the night before. “The village is not far after that.”

The jarl nodded, glancing back only briefly. “Good.”

They continued on in silence. Einarr listened for the tell-tale signs of civilization, but there were none; all he could hear was the scuffle of feet dragging across the ground, and the carefree chirping of birds in the trees. Up ahead, the forest began thinning, and through the boughs Einarr could see a wide, sloping field, and the faintest hints of smoke rising up into the sky in the distance.

As they approached the field, the sound of bleating goats reached Einarr’s ears, quiet but not too far away. The jarl held up his hand, signalling for them to slow. Einarr readjusted his grip on his axe, and around him several people shuffled in anticipation—where there were goats, one was likely to find a goatherd.

They moved forward slowly. When they reached the edge of the forest, the jarl held up his hand again, and this time they stopped altogether. He turned, motioning for those in the first line to follow him, while the rest stayed behind. They did not know how far away the goatherd was; if they alerted him of their presence too early, he could run and warn the other villagers.

Einarr crept forward, and the rest of the front line moved with him. They gathered together behind the jarl, following as he led them out into the field. It rested on the top of a hill, looking down on the village below. Several groupings of trees were scattered throughout the fields, but they were small and thin, bent by wind.

The goatherd sat on a rock only a few metres away, his back to them. He had a cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he watched the few dozen goats in his care. They moved towards him, slowly at first but gradually growing faster. The goatherd, hearing the stomping of their feet against the moist earth, turned, and Einarr watched as fear spread across his face. He was young— much younger than Einarr had expected, likely only a year or two older than Ýrr, without even a scruff of hair on his chin. He jumped to his feet and stumbled backwards, the cloak slipping from his skinny shoulders. He let out a terrified scream, but instead of turning and running he simply stood there, staring in horror as they broke out into a run.

The jarl raised his sword, and as they reached the goatherd he swung it down in a glinting arc. The blade sliced through the boy’s chest, his scream dying in his throat as he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. The jarl barely spared him another glance as he continued his march down the hill. As Einarr passed by, he looked down at the bloodied body; the boy had impossibly blue eyes, the colour of the sky on a cloudless day.

He looked away quickly, suddenly sickened by the corpse of such a young boy, and sped up. He could see a house near the base of the hill, and several more beyond that; most were likely farmhouses, judging by the barns and fields that lay nearby.

“We attack these houses first,” the jarl said, his voice gruff. He raised his sword once more, dripping with blood, and Einarr shuddered, whether from the damp or something else, he did not know.

The jarl let out a great, bellowing howl, and ran forward. Einarr followed after him, his axe held tightly in his hands. Behind him, he heard the cries of dozens of men and women as the warriors they had left behind in the forest surged forth from the trees, brandishing their deadly weapons. Einarr joined in, his own voice mixing with those around him until it became indistinguishable.

◊◊◊

Leofwine heard the screams before he saw the burning.

They were shrill and terrified, the fear in them so obvious it made his blood run cold. He stood quickly from where he had been sitting at the base of a tree, his eyes immediately searching out Æthelswith and Ecgberht. They had stopped their playing and were standing, completely still, in the middle of the yard. Leofwine hurried towards them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Fæder?” Æthelswith’s eyes were wide as she looked at him, and she reached out, wrapping her hand around her brother’s.

Leofwine turned in the direction of the screams, seeing the plumes of smoke billowing up into the sky. Underneath the shrieks of terror and pleas for mercy, he could hear the ferocious cries of warriors diving into battle. A surge of fear coursed through him at the sound, and he tightened his grip on his children’s shoulders.

“Inside,” he said, turning Æthelswith and Ecgberht towards the house. “Hurry.”

“Fæder, what is happening?” Æthelswith asked, looking from Leofwine to the smoke rising into the sky behind them. “Is something on fire?”

“Hush.” He ran a hand through her tangled hair, before bending down to pick up Ecgberht. “Come, we must hurry.”

They ran across the yard to the house, Leofwine’s hand on Æthelswith’s back to keep her moving. He ushered her inside, closing and latching the door behind them. Setting Ecgberht down, he rushed to the chest that sat against one of the walls, ripping it open. It was full of pieces of fabric and clothing, but Leofwine quickly emptied it, dumping its contents on the floor.

“Ecgberht, come here.” He reached his hand out towards his son, and, after a brief moment of hesitation, Ecgberht took it. Leofwine could see the tears glimmering in his eyes as his bottom lip shook.

“You must be strong, Ecgberht,” he said, holding the boy’s hands tightly. “Pray, and God will protect you.” He lifted Ecgberht into his arms and gently placed him in the chest, replacing what clothes he could fit back on top of him. Ecgberht began crying, his face red as the tears streamed down his cheeks. “You must be quiet, my son,” Leofwine said. “You must.”

Ecgberht’s cries quieted, and Leofwine placed a kiss on his forehead. As he closed the chest, he could still faintly hear the boy sniffling. He quickly tossed the remaining bolts of fabric up into the loft.

“Fæder, what are you doing?” asked Æthelswith, as Leofwine hurried over towards her.

“Æthelswith, please, we must hide now.”

“Please, what is happening?”

Leofwine sighed. He could still hear the screams in the distance; they did not have much time. “It is the Northmen,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. He had heard stories of the Danes and their ruthless attacks—they were vicious men who worshiped pagan gods and raided unsuspecting villages, leaving trails of dead bodies in their wake. They had been a plague upon East Anglia and many other kingdoms for several years now, and they had yet to be driven off. Leofwine had long feared an attack on their own village, so close to the sea, while Cynethryth had dismissed his fears as paranoid.

He took Æthelswith by the hand and led her over to the table. “That is why we must hide,” he said, moving aside the cloth that covered the table and draped down over its sides. “They will kill us if they find us.”

Æthelswith took in a deep breath, and though he could see tears brimming in her eyes she did not let them fall. Silently, she scurried beneath the table, and Leofwine followed after her, letting the cloth fall back into place. He gathered her up into his arms and let his eyes slip shut, his lips forming the silent words of a prayer. He wondered, briefly, if they should have run, instead of cowering inside with no weapons and no way to protect themselves.

His mouth felt dry, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. Æthelswith was shaking violently against him, and he held her tighter. “God will protect us,” he whispered, taking her hands in his. He could hear the thunderous cries of the Northmen outside, speaking in a language he did not understand. They were laughing, calling out to each other, and to Leofwine they sounded like demons.

The door swung open, violently hitting the wall with a loud bang.  

◊◊◊

Einarr stepped into the house, the door swinging against the wall. It was a farmhouse; that much was obvious. A pen sat beside the house, alongside a barn, though both were empty of any animals. Inside, it was simple—there were very few pieces of furniture, and the floor was made of packed dirt. The fire that sat in the middle of the room was little more than a pile of smoking embers, and the most ornate thing seemed to be the small brass crucifix resting on the table.

Chuckling, Einarr picked it up, turning it around in his hands. It was well-used, marked with age, but completely worthless to him. He tossed it onto the floor, where it landed with a dull thud. There didn’t seem to be anything else of any value in the house. Still, he didn’t leave—not yet. Every house had inhabitants, and though the people who lived in this one might have fled, there was also the possibility that they were still there, hiding.

He looked around the room, taking note of all the furniture. There were two beds—one up in a loft and one on the ground—but they were both obviously void of occupants. A small chest sat pushed against one of the walls, and there was also the table, covered in a long cloth. Einarr readjusted his grip on his axe and began pacing the room, like a predator circling its prey.

He made towards the table. If anyone was hiding in this house, it would be there. He nearly laughed at the idea; how foolish, how _scared_ , would someone have to be to think that hiding under a flimsy table would protect them? He bent to pull back the cloth, but something shuffled behind him and he paused. It sounded as if it was coming from the chest.

Einarr straightened, and walked across the room to where the chest sat, pushed up against a wall. It was latched, but unlocked. As he stood hovering over it, something inside moved, hitting the sides of the chest. Einarr reached down, undoing the latch, but, before he could lift the lid, a man ran out from under the table, yelling something in the incomprehensible language of the Anglo-Saxons.

Einarr spun, his axe held high. The metal glinted in the dim light, and as he swung down his eyes met the man’s—light brown, and more familiar to him than any other. He gasped audibly, and made to stumble back, but it was too late. The sharp blade dug itself into Bilbo’s chest.

There was a split second where the world seemed to freeze, as if processing what had just happened. Thorin felt his entire body go cold as he stared into Bilbo’s eyes, wide and terrified.

Bilbo stumbled back, and then fell, a red stain blossoming from the wound in his chest. Thorin’s axe slipped from his grasp as he collapsed to his knees beside Bilbo, horrified and shocked by what he had just done.

“Bilbo—” His voice choked in his throat as he leaned forward, cradling Bilbo’s face in his hands. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and onto Thorin’s fingers, and he felt a wave of nausea roll through him. “What have I done? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; I don’t—” He stopped, taking in a shaky breath. Bilbo didn’t understand him, didn’t understand the Norse language. Thorin searched his mind, looking for the words of languages he had forgotten long ago: English, Danish, Romanian, even Latin and Gaelic. But while he could hear them, he could not call the words or the grammar to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, though he knew his apology fell on unknowing ears. “Please, Bilbo, forgive me.” His eyes travelled down to Bilbo’s chest, where blood was pouring from the gaping wound. Most of him knew that Bilbo would not—could not—survive this, but some small, over-hopeful part of him thought that maybe he could save him. He stood, scanning the room for any blankets or cloth that he could use to press down on the wound, but Bilbo’s hand on his wrist stopped him.

Thorin knelt back down, wrapping Bilbo’s hand up in his own. His fingers were slippery with blood, and he took in a shallow, rasping breath that made Thorin’s heart stop. Bilbo was dying, and it was Thorin who had killed him. Before, it had always been someone or something else—a British soldier, a vengeful brother-in-law, an exploding ship. There had never been anything Thorin could do to stop it.

But now, he was the one who had buried his axe deep in Bilbo’s chest.

Bilbo opened his mouth, and said something in a weak, failing voice that Thorin didn’t understand. He spoke Anglo-Saxon—Old English—and while the words he spoke were familiar to Thorin’s ears, they were so distorted by time that he couldn’t hope to comprehend them.

Though he was pale and blood still dribbled from his lips, Bilbo smiled. It was a sad smile, but Thorin could see from it that Bilbo did not blame him. He whispered something, softly and quietly, and Thorin heard his name, but that was all. He could do nothing but watch as Bilbo grew weaker, his hand going limp in Thorin’s as he slipped away.

“Bilbo.” Thorin could hear the desperation in his own voice as stared down at Bilbo’s body. The crimson of his blood seemed to burn in the dull daylight, and Thorin had to look away. A sob escaped past his lips, and it was like a dam breaking; his tears burst forth in torrents, pouring out as if they could wash away the guilt that now stained his very being.

Bilbo was dead, and it was Thorin’s fault.

A surge of anger rose up within him, mingling with his grief until he could no longer keep it in and he screamed. He was angry at himself, and at the world. How could he do this, what had he done, what had he done? His screams devolved into sobs, and he fell forward, the dirt of the floor sticking to the blood that coated his hands. He was shaking violently, and he felt as if he might be sick. He took in deep, gulping breaths, gasping for air as if he was drowning.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He sprang to his feet, reaching immediately for the dagger that hung at his waist and ripping it from its sheath. A little girl stared back at him, her eyes wide with fear. She was not much older than Birla, and Thorin felt his heart clench. Her face and clothes were streaked with dirt, and she was so terrified she was shaking.

He dropped the dagger and raised his hands, taking a few steps back. She watched him warily, her eyes darting between him and the chest. Thorin backed up slowly until his back was pressed against the wall opposite to the chest, his bloody hands still raised. The girl stared at him for a moment, before scurrying towards the chest, throwing the lid open and pulling out a small boy from amongst the piles of cloth.

She held him close, her eyes once again focused on Thorin. The boy seemed to be only four or five, and Thorin realized with a jolt that they were Bilbo’s children, both with his sand-coloured curls and soft, rounded face. He wondered for a moment where their mother was; there was no sign of her. Perhaps she had run, or was already dead. Bile rose up in Thorin’s throat at the thought that he might have orphaned these two children.

He didn’t know what to do. The girl was still watching him, her brown eyes full of terror, and the boy was staring at Bilbo’s body. He pulled away from his sister’s grasp, wandering over to the body; the girl said something to him, but he didn’t respond, falling to his knees beside his dead father.

“ _Fæder_.” He reached out, shaking Bilbo by the shoulders, as if hoping to wake him. Thorin understood little else of what the boy said, but he could hear the desperation growing in his voice as he failed to wake his father. The girl rushed forward, taking her brother by the arm and dragging him away from the body. Tears were streaming down both their faces, and Thorin found that he could take it no longer.

He pushed himself away from the wall, and the girl jumped back, still gripping her brother’s arm. Thorin could not even look at them, and hurried from the house, not even bothering to stop and retrieve his dagger and axe. He let the door latch shut behind him, and then he was falling forward into the mud. It splashed up his arms and into his face, and Thorin dug his hands into it until the blood on them was covered by the filth.

The rain had stopped, and the sun was beginning to poke through the clouds. He could hear his companions yelling in the distance, gone now to the nearby village. Their shouts were punctuated by piercing screams, and Thorin wondered how he would ever pick himself back up again.

◊◊◊

**Scandinavia, 7 Months Later**

It was the middle of winter. The wind blowing off the sea was biting, but Thorin didn’t mind. He barely noticed the cold, wrapped up in a pile of furs.

He had been back home for several months now, and those few weeks in East Anglia felt like a dream. His nephews had found him, long after the raid on the village had ended, still crouching in front of Bilbo’s home. They had dragged him back to camp, thinking that perhaps he was injured; he had hardly spoken, and could not explain what had happened to him. He had felt cold with guilt and grief, and his daughter had eventually surmised that he had fallen ill.

He had stayed behind in the camp, while most everyone else had departed for the monastery. Fíli had told him it was called Cnobheresburg, and lay not too far away, on the edge of a swamp. While they waited for the raiders to return, Thorin had wandered back to the village, now little more than rotting bodies and smouldering ashes. Bilbo’s children were gone from the house, and he had found no hints as to where they had disappeared. He had wondered about them often since then, but there was no way for him to find them; they were likely dead.

The raiders had returned a few days later, weighed down by valuables from the monastery and pulling bound monks in tow. They would be brought back to Scandinavia, to be sold as slaves. Thorin remembered hearing their silent, desperate prayers late at night, the familiar words of Latin escaping from their lips up into the dark sky.

They had returned home not long after that, and Thorin had spent the past several months forcing himself to continue living his life as normal. He took comfort in his children and his work, but his thoughts still dwelt on Bilbo; he wondered how he would ever face him again.

Thorin took in a deep breath. The cold air stung his nose and throat, and he held back a cough. He looked up, to where bright blue sky was peeking out from between white clouds. Wind was pushing the clouds across the blue expanse, and Thorin watched as they sailed out towards the sea.

He closed his eyes, listening to the waves crashing against the beach and the breeze rustling through the trees. He could hear the sheep and goats bleating in their pen, Birla and Skírlaug laughing, Þórleifr arguing with Lofn. He did not know how much time he had left with his family; it could be years, or only a few months. 

“Faðir.”

Thorin turned to see Ýrr standing near the edge of the beach, a basket of cheese in her arms. “Are you alright?” she asked, her eyebrows drawn together. Thorin could tell that she knew something had happened to him in East Anglia; she often looked at him with worry, and asked him how he was several times a day.

He nodded, standing and brushing the sand from his clothes. “Yes. I am fine, thank you.” He smiled at her, and she stared at him for a moment, silent.

“Alright,” she said, after several seconds had passed. She looked up towards the farm, where Lofn could be seen in front of the house, shaking out furs. “Will you be coming up now?”

Thorin nodded again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to forget about what he did, nor would he be able to forgive himself—not in this lifetime. But he knew he could not stop living. He understood better than most that life was short, and could end suddenly in the most horrific ways. He could not spend the rest of his numbered days consumed by guilt and overridden by grief.

That could come later, when he no longer had a family to care for.

“Yes,” he said, placing a hand on Ýrr’s shoulder and smiling. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Leofwine - Bilbo  
> Einarr - Thorin  
> Hávarr - Fíli  
> Tóti - Kíli  
> Cenric - Frodo


	10. Sólarupprás

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iceland, 2016 (Part 1)  
> 20th Life  
>  _The professor and the photographer_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I've decided to split the final chapter into two parts, because otherwise it would honestly be massive and probably wouldn't be finished until mid-July, as the rest of June is insanely busy for me. I'll try and have the second part up as soon as possible, but I really have no idea when it'll be up. Until then, I hope you enjoy this first part. :)

Spring was Ágúst’s favourite season.

It was the time of year when the sun rose and set at regular times and, after the dark winter months, it came as a relief. Even in the south of the country, some days could see as little as four hours of sunlight. This, of course, made Ágúst’s job difficult—it was not easy being a nature photographer, when one could not see nature.

So when late winter rolled around and the days began to grow longer, it never failed to make him happy. He could really begin working again, when winter died and spring came into being. Of course, people enjoyed the snowy landscapes he would take in the middle of January, right at noon only an hour after the sun had risen; he liked them too. But, to him, in winter everything began to look the same. The same soggy fields, the same houses dusted with white, the same brown hills.

Behind him, the car horn honked and he turned to see Gunnar glaring at him through the windshield. “Hurry up!” he called, rolling down the window and leaning out. “I have places to be, you know!”

Ágúst laughed. “Like where? You never go anywhere!” He turned back towards his camera as Gunnar let out a loud, sarcastic laugh and rolled up the window.

He was standing on the side of a long, twisting road, less than an hour north of Reykjavík. The sky was grey and cloudy, as it often was that time of year, and a thin mist shrouded the tops of the nearby cliffs. A turf-roofed church sat in the distance, surrounded by a simple stone fence. It was one of the typically Icelandic landscapes he often saw circulating around the Internet, and he smirked as he leaned forward, peering through the viewfinder. He quickly focused the image and took the shot, the shutter clicking as he pressed the release.

Leaning back, he inspected the photo. It was good enough; he was sure the magazine would like it. He would have liked to get some close-up pictures of the church—it seemed to be at least one hundred years old—but he was sure Gunnar would leave without him if he stayed much longer. Besides, he was not paid to take pictures of buildings, however old they may be.

He carefully replaced his camera in its case and collapsed the tripod. Gunnar started the car as he approached, and Ágúst tossed his things into the back before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Finally,” Gunnar mumbled, yanking his seatbelt across his chest and clicking it into place. “I didn’t think you were ever going to finish.”

“Why did you offer to come if you’re only going to complain?” asked Ágúst, as they pulled out onto the road. It was quiet, with very little traffic; Ágúst had seen only three other cars in the past twenty minutes.

Gunnar scowled. “I had forgotten how annoying you are when you take photos. Everything has to be perfect and _just right_ —”

“These are for the magazine,” Ágúst pointed out. “They have to be at least kind of good.”

“What article are these even for? What sort of story needs pictures of an old church in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s about unknown sights near Reykjavík,” Ágúst explained. “Just... nice places near the city that not a lot of people know about.”

“That was a sight?” Gunnar asked, one eyebrow raised. “How?”

Ágúst scoffed. “People love things like that. Especially tourists.” He shrugged. “It’s pretty; the quintessential picture of Iceland, you know? Not everyone hates pretty things like you.”

“I suppose that’s why I can tolerate you,” Gunnar said with a laugh.

Ágúst rolled his eyes.

Gunnar grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “Where are we going now?” he asked, as they turned a corner and the sea came into view on the left. Ágúst could see the town of Hofn across the water, its white buildings standing out against the brown grass. Great black hills rose up on the right, covered in basalt; the slopes seemed almost smooth, with only the tops being rocky and jagged. The hills were completely bare of any life, the volcanic rock no doubt too harsh for any plants to survive in.

Ágúst shrugged, leaning forward in his seat to get a better view of the hills. “Wherever the wind takes us, my friend,” he said, smirking.

Gunnar sighed, shaking his head. “So we’ll just drive, then, until you find something nice to photograph?”

“Exactly.” Ágúst nodded, and Gunnar rolled his eyes.

“If I ever volunteer to come with you on one of the photography adventures again, please shoot me.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Ágúst said, sitting back up. “You’re just being dramatic.”

“Get Sigrún to come with you next time instead,” said Gunnar with a huff.

“You think Sigrún has the time to do this?” Ágúst asked.

“Do you think _I_ have the time to do this?”

“Hey, you volunteered,” said Ágúst. “I didn’t force you to do this; you did it of your own free will. So stop your complaining and drive.”

Gunnar shot him a deadly glare, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Ágúst grinned. Most people would be terrified of Gunnar; he was a big, muscly man covered in tattoos, and at 6’2” he could be more than a little intimidating. Ágúst, however, had known Gunnar since they were children, growing up together in the small northern city of Akureyri. He knew that Gunnar wasn’t nearly as frightening as he looked, though he did have a mean punch—Ágúst knew that from experience.

“We’re almost done,” he said, reaching back and grabbing his camera case. “Just a few more pictures.”

Gunnar sighed, but his grip loosened on the steering wheel. “You’re high-maintenance, you know that?” He shook his head. “My God...”

“And you’re whiny,” Ágúst shot back.

Up ahead, a small gravel road branched off from the main street, leading towards the black hills. Ágúst leaned forward, pointing towards it. “Pull in there,” he directed. “I want to get some shots of the hills.”

“Yes, sir,” Gunnar muttered, slowing down to turn onto the road. A fence blocked cars from going very far, and as Gunnar stopped Ágúst hopped out, quickly unzipping the case and pulling out his camera.

“I won’t be long,” he promised, and Gunnar laughed. Ágúst ignored him, letting the door slam closed. He briefly considered hopping the fence—it only went to his waist—but then decided against it. The pictures would look better from further away, anyways.

He turned the camera on and lifted it to his face, fiddling with the focus and the angle until he was satisfied. He took a few shots like that, and then sprinted back up the gravel road and across the street. Gunnar watched him from the car, one eyebrow raised.

A breeze blew in from the sea, bringing with it the smell of salt. It ruffled Ágúst’s hair, blowing it into his face, and rustled through the tall grass surrounding him. He took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold ocean air, and lifted his camera to his face.

◊◊◊

**Amsterdam**

It was raining outside, the sky grey and cloudy. Droplets of water ran in rivulets down the window pane, and Sebastiaan watched them with bored interest. He had been grading papers for the past several hours, and he could feel his brain slowly going numb. Stretching, he lifted his glasses to run a hand over his face, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

He reached for his coffee mug to find it sadly empty. He frowned at it, as if his disappointment could magically refill it. It was only the early afternoon, but already he couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Why did he make his students write ten-page papers, again? It seemed as if he just wanted himself to suffer.

Behind him, the door creaked open, and Sebastiaan turned to see Elia’s head poking out from the doorway. “Are you still working?” he asked, his brows drawn together.

Sebastiaan nodded, setting the mug back down. “I have papers to grade,” he said, motioning to the pile of essays taking up most of his desk space.

Elia frowned. “You shouldn’t work so much,” he said, stepping into the room and letting the door close behind him, “certainly not when you’re actually off work.”

“I know,” Sebastiaan mumbled, sighing. “But if I don’t get at least some of these papers graded, I don’t—”

“Bastiaan.” Elia cut him off, coming forward and placing both hands on Sebastiaan’s shoulders. “You’re going to tire yourself out, working so much. Take a break; the papers can wait for an hour or two.”

Sebastiaan leaned back, taking one of Elia’s hands in his own. He knew he was right, as he often was. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Elia smiled, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Sebastiaan’s knuckles. “It’s just I sometimes feel as if I haven’t seen you for weeks. Though of course that’s not always your fault.”

Sebastiaan sighed. When he didn’t have classes to teach, he was often busy with other work, and when he did finally have some free time, Elia was busy with his own job. There were few times where their schedules matched up, unless they specifically planned it, and that often got too complicated to bother with.

“I only have one class tomorrow, in the morning,” Sebastiaan said, rifling through the mess on his desk until he found his planner.

“I have a surgery scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, remember?”

Sebastiaan frowned, flipping through the pages of the planner. “Right... How long will it take?”

“Likely all afternoon,” Elia said, leaning against the edge of the desk, “and I work the rest of the week, all day.”

“God, we should take a vacation,” Sebastiaan mumbled. He leant back, stretching his arms above his head, and let out a loud sigh.

Elia smiled. “Let’s do it.”

Sebastiaan raised an eyebrow, straightening. “What do you mean?

“I mean, let’s take a vacation,” said Elia, bending so that his eyes were level with Sebastiaan’s. There was a joyful glint in them, one that almost made Sebastiaan apprehensive. “Somewhere we’ve never been before.”

“When would we do this?” Sebastiaan asked. He could tell that Elia was serious, and almost regretted bringing up the topic of vacations; once Elia latched onto an idea, it was difficult to make him let go.

Elia shrugged. “The summer would be easiest, after you’re finished with exams and all that. I could probably get about a week off. Obviously, we wouldn’t be able to go _too_ far away; we’d likely have to stay in Europe. But we could do it.” His smile grew, and Sebastiaan was surprised he wasn’t giggling in excitement.

“Where would we go, then?” he asked. “Do you have someplace in mind?”

“Denmark, maybe,” Elia suggested. “Or Norway.” He paused, thinking. “Croatia... Portugal, Ireland, Austria...”

“You see, I feel like you’re just naming random countries.”

“I’m trying to think of a place neither of us have been,” argued Elia, glaring at him, though there was no actual anger in his look.

“I’ve already been to Denmark,” Sebastiaan said.

Elia’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Really? When?”

Sebastiaan opened his mouth to answer, and then promptly closed it, thinking. He couldn’t remember when, exactly, but he knew he’d been there; he distinctly remembered walking down the streets in Copenhagen. “When I was a kid,” he decided, after a moment. “I went with my parents; one of my uncles was living up there for work.”

“Norway, then.” Elia pushed away from the desk, clasping his hands together. Sebastiaan watched him, smirking. “Oh!” Elia spun to face him, pointing at him. “Iceland!”

“Iceland?” Sebastiaan raised an eyebrow as Elia’s grin grew wider.

“Yes! Iceland!” he repeated. “Tickets shouldn’t be too expensive, and it’s a small country so it wouldn’t be hard to see all the main sights in a week. Plus, it’s gorgeous. Have you seen some of the pictures of that place?”

“We’ll look into it,” Sebastiaan said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “But you realize this all hangs on whether you can get an entire week off of work.”

“I’ll do it,” promised Elia. “Even five days would be alright.”

Sebastiaan nodded, standing to place a quick kiss on Elia’s cheek. “Then we should start planning.”

◊◊◊

**Reykjavík**

Ágúst sat on his sister’s front porch, scrolling through pictures on his camera. Though it was nearly eight o’clock at night, the sun had not even begun to set, and wouldn’t until nearly 11:30. Even then, it would only slip just barely below the horizon, not even far enough for the complete darkness of night to set in. It was only the end of May, but it had already been over a month since the sun had set completely, and it would not do so again until the summer was nearly over. He sighed, leaning his head against the back of his chair.

Sigrún looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“I was just thinking about the sun,” he replied, lifting one hand to shield his eyes, “and how I’m already sick of it.”

Sigrún smirked. “It’s way too early in the summer for that. We haven’t even passed the solstice.” She leaned towards him, poking him in the arm. “Besides, I thought you liked the summer. You always talk about how you can work longer when the sun doesn’t really set.”

“But it does make sleeping difficult,” said Ágúst, scowling, “especially when it’s only below the horizon for... what? Four hours? And even then, it’s still bright outside.”

“That’s what blackout curtains are for, my dear brother.” Sigrún motioned to the thick, dark curtains covering her own windows, as if Ágúst had never seen them before in his life. “Just wait—come December, you will be begging for the sun to stay longer.”

The front door opened, and Sigrún’s husband, Hlynur, stepped out onto the porch. He was grinning, and as he went to take a seat he bent down to place a quick kiss on Sigrún’s lips. Ágúst resisted the urge to roll his eyes like a thirteen-year-old.

“Is Ágúst complaining already?” Hlynur asked, and Ágúst scowled at him.

“He is,” Sigrún replied, her smirk growing wider. “He’s so tired of the sun, Hlynur...” She leaned against her husband, flailing her arms dramatically.

Ágúst sent her what he hoped to be a significantly angry glare, and turned his attention back to his camera. He had just spent the day at the Blue Lagoon, taking photographs for an article about the famed geothermal spa. Unsurprisingly, Gunnar had been much less reluctant to go with him on this trip than on the last. While Ágúst was busy taking pictures, Gunnar had stripped down to his swimsuit and had spent a few hours relaxing in the warm, aqua-blue waters of the lagoon. He had even been so kind as to offer to model for Ágúst, a proposition he had hastily denied.

“Do you ever put that camera down?”

He glanced up to see Sigrún staring at him, one eyebrow raised. “No,” he said with a shake of his head, his face completely serious. “I shower, sleep, and shit with this camera in my hand. I’m thinking of having it surgically attached, actually. That way I never have to be without it.”

Sigrún rolled her eyes, and Hlynur let out a quiet laugh. “I think you should do it,” he said. “It’ll really show how committed you are to your craft.”

Ágúst snorted, but he still turned the camera off, setting it aside. Sigrún gave him a small smile.

“Móðir called earlier today,” she said, the smile slowly dropping from her face. Ágúst frowned. “She asked if you were seeing anyone. Again. I think that’s the fifth time this month.”

Ágúst winced, and let out a loud sigh. His mother was obsessed with the fact that he was in his late thirties and still single. She often liked to point out that both his younger siblings were in long-term relationships, and that Sigrún even had two children. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I don’t why she always calls you instead of me.”

“She doesn’t want to pester you,” Sigrún said, her voice very unsympathetic, “so she pesters me instead.” She formed her fingers into the shape of a phone and held it to her ear, speaking in a frighteningly good imitation of their mother’s creaky, rasping voice, “Hello, dear? Yes, hi. How are you? Good, good. And Hlynur and the children? Oh wonderful. Now, tell me, is your brother seeing anyone? I mean Ágúst, of course.” She dropped her hand, facing Ágúst with a weary stare. “I get that twice a week. Sometimes more.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ágúst asked, spreading his hands.

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

Ágúst opened his mouth to answer, and then paused, closing it again. He couldn’t actually remember the last date he went on—it had been a long time ago, he knew that at least.

Sigrún shot him a smug grin. “Exactly. You could at least _look_ for someone. Honestly, I think Móðir just worries for you, all alone in your little apartment with nothing but your camera for company. I worry about you too, sometimes.”

“Hey, Gunnar’s over a lot of the time,” argued Ágúst.

“And he’s just about your only friend,” Sigrún pointed out.

“Is Hlynur not my friend?” Ágúst gestured to his brother-in-law, who seemed almost scared at the thought of being dragged into the discussion between the two siblings.

“Hlynur doesn’t count,” declared Sigrún with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You have to be friends with him—he’s my husband.”

Ágúst sighed, leaning back in his chair and resting his feet against the porch railing. “I don’t have time for a relationship,” he said. “I’m very busy with work, you know.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. He spent half the week driving around the country, taking pictures of waterfalls and volcanoes and coastline, and the other half was spent choosing the right photographs for the articles and then editing them. And every few months, he would be flown off to some other country to take pictures for a special issue of the magazine. The countries were almost always either in Europe or North America, and the articles featured cities like Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Zurich, and Oslo. After all, they were the in-flight magazine for Icelandair, and plenty of travellers had a layover in Reykjavík before continuing on to their bigger, warmer destinations elsewhere in Europe.

“You’re going to die alone,” Sigrún told him.

“No, I’m not.” He stood, stretching with his arms above his head. He reached down to pick up his camera, waving it at his sister. “I’ll always have my camera.”

◊◊◊

**Amsterdam**

Sebastiaan had always loved flying. He had been six the first time he’d flown, when he and his parents had travelled to England to visit his British cousins, and he had loved it ever since. There was something about it that he found oddly comforting—the hum of the engines, the feeling of sailing so high above the clouds, the knowledge that he was going somewhere far away and different. There were, of course, many things he hated about flying as well: the cramped space, the terrible food, the claustrophobic bathrooms, to name a few. But he was often still able to enjoy it, if the flight wasn’t too long.

Elia, on the other hand, absolutely despised flying. It terrified him, to say the least, and before they had even left the ground he was clutching at the armrests, his knuckles white.

“Calm down,” Sebastiaan told him quietly, as the plane began its taxi from the gate to the runway, and Elia started to look as if he might pass out. “You’ll be fine.”

“I know, I know,” Elia snapped, glowering, “but that doesn’t make me feel better.”

Sebastiaan gave him a sympathetic smile, patting him on the arm. The flight was only three hours long, non-stop from Amsterdam to Reykjavík, but with any luck Elia would be asleep the entire time. He had already taken a sleeping pill, and he never had much trouble dozing off. Otherwise, he would be a nervous wreck for the next three hours.

As the plane taxied, a safety video began playing on the screens built into the seats. The narrator’s voice came on over the intercom, speaking accented English as Icelandic subtitles appeared and disappeared at the bottom of the screen. Sebastiaan watched the video with bored interest, paying more attention to the shots of Icelandic scenery than the message the narrator was conveying.

Elia reached for him, and Sebastiaan let him wrap his fingers around his hand. “Just close your eyes,” he told him, and Elia nodded. He took in a deep breath, and let his eyes slip shut. Sebastiaan watched him with a small smile. Back when they had begun planning this vacation, he had suggested that they go somewhere they could drive to, but Elia had staunchly refused. He had decided they were going to Iceland, and so to Iceland they would go.

The plane began to speed up, and though his eyes were closed, Elia’s face paled. His grip on Sebastiaan’s hand tightened, and Sebastiaan winced in pain as his bones were nearly crushed. The nose of the plane lifted, and Sebastiaan was pushed back into his seat. Elia sat, frozen and stiff as a board, as the plane gained altitude. Sebastiaan leaned forward to gaze out the window, smiling—he could see the city of Amsterdam growing smaller in the distance, and beyond that the harbour.

“There,” he said as the plane evened out, nudging Elia’s shoulder with his own. “Better now?”

“We still have to land,” Elia muttered, his teeth clamped together. “That’s worse than taking off.”

“I’ll hold your hand again,” Sebastiaan promised with a grin, pecking Elia on the cheek.

Elia gave a sarcastic laugh, one eye cracking open to look at Sebastiaan. He murmured something incomprehensible under his breath, before closing his eye and settling back against the seat with a sigh. Sebastiaan stared at him for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out what Elia had muttered. He gave up after only a few seconds, and leaned away with a shrug, finally freeing his hand from Elia’s grip.

As Elia settled in to sleep, Sebastiaan reached forward and began rifling through the pocket on the seat in front of him. It contained the standard issue of what one would expect to find on a plane: a safety brochure, a catalogue full of useless, overpriced junk, and a travel magazine proudly emblazoned with the logo of Icelandair. It was titled _Ævintýri_ , and there were copies in both English and Icelandic. He flipped open the English one, scanning the index that filled the first page. Most of the articles were focused on Iceland, speaking of shops in downtown Reykjavík, sights to see in and around Akureyri, and the best hiking trails in southern Iceland. There were quite a few about the country’s natural beauty—mountains, geysers, waterfalls, lakes. The scenery was, of course, a large part of what brought tourists to Iceland, and Sebastiaan could see why. It was a country unlike any other, with nature that could not easily be found anywhere else.

Sebastiaan quickly scanned through the rest of the magazine, stopping every now and then to read a snippet from some of the articles. He stopped on one with a large, full-page picture of what looked like a lake. The water was cloudy and so blue it seemed to blend in with the sky above it; steam was rising from the surface, and he could see people clad in bathing suits wading shoulder-deep in the water.

The title of the article proclaimed it to be the Blue Lagoon, one of the most popular tourist destinations in Iceland. It was a man-made geothermal spa in the south of the country, about an hour from Reykjavík. Sebastiaan realized that Elia had told him about the lagoon several weeks ago, and was apparently planning on going there at some point in their trip, something Sebastiaan wouldn’t object to.

Outside, the land gave way to water as they reached the North Sea. According to the map displayed on the screen in front of them, most of their flight would be spent over the ocean, with a few brief spurts above Scotland before they reached Iceland.

Sebastiaan closed the magazine and returned it to the seat pocket. He watched through the window as they sailed higher and higher, gliding through clouds until the sea below was no longer visible.

◊◊◊

**Reykjavík**

It was past midnight when Ágúst returned home to his apartment. He had somehow let Gunnar convince him to go out to some bar he often frequented with his gym friends. Many of them had been there when they had arrived, hard to miss due to their towering, muscled figures. Ágúst had met a few before, when Gunnar had dragged him to the gym in an attempt to get him to exercise more. Ágúst had argued that he exercised often enough; maybe not five hours a day like Gunnar, but enough for any sane, reasonable person.

Ágúst had stayed just long enough to please Gunnar, listening as he chatted with his friends, but not really weighing in. He liked Gunnar’s friends well enough, but often felt that none of them liked him. Still, he humoured Gunnar, knowing that he meant well.

He was still pleased to be home, however. Inside, it was dim, though not dark, despite the time. He toed his shoes off, kicking them into a corner; he’d pick them up in morning. Yawning, he wandered from the entryway into the living room, where gold-coloured sunlight was filtering in through the windows. Ágúst scowled at it, and quickly drew the curtains.

He noticed as he stepped back that the philodendron sitting on one of the side tables was dead. The stalks were all wilted, and the pot was full of dried, brown leaves. He had, in all honesty, completely forgotten about the plant. Sigrún had given it to him a few months ago, saying that perhaps it could keep him company.

He frowned at the poor, dead plant. “Sorry,” he muttered, though he didn’t know why he was apologizing to it. He would have to throw it away in the morning, and maybe buy a new one to replace it, so Sigrún wouldn’t realize that he had killed her gift. Or maybe not; it seemed like too much work, and he didn’t even know where he could find another philodendron.

In the kitchen, he grabbed himself a glass of water. He briefly considered scrounging up something to eat, but then decided not to. He was too tired, and he had to be up relatively early the next morning. The magazine was doing an article about waterfalls in Iceland, and he had a list of those he wanted to visit and photograph. While all of the ones he was going to see tomorrow were less than an hour’s drive from Reykjavík, it was still likely that he would be spending the entire day out, driving around, hiking, and taking photographs.

Still, he wasn’t dreading it. He loved waterfalls, and greatly enjoyed photographing them. And while the driving wouldn’t be excessively pleasant, he had always liked hiking. Though of course carrying around photography equipment made it somewhat more difficult. Unfortunately, Gunnar had declined his invitation to join him.

Setting his glass on the nightstand beside his bed, Ágúst fell back onto the mattress with a loud sigh. He hadn’t made his bed in nearly a week, and the blankets were all tangled into a pile near the baseboard. He glared at them, willing them to sort themselves out, but, as expected, they did nothing. Groaning tiredly, he forced himself to stand up, and fix the blankets himself.

◊◊◊

Sebastiaan sat in the passenger seat of their rental car, watching as the scenery outside passed by. Rocky hills rose up from the earth, separated from the road by stone-filled fields. The tallest vegetation were small bushes, less than half a metre tall; Sebastiaan couldn’t see any trees, no matter which way he looked.

They were driving through Þingvellir National Park, only about forty minutes north of Reykjavík. It was mid-morning, and they had been in Iceland for about twelve hours. Þingvellir was the first stop on their six day vacation; they had already stopped to see Lake Þingvallavatn, and were now on their way to Öxarárfoss, a waterfall twenty minutes north of the lake.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Sebastiaan said. He could see Þingvallavatn shimmering in the distance, nestled between the hills. “You wouldn’t be able to find anything like this in the Netherlands.”

Though Þingvellir was a popular tourist destination, there was a surprisingly small amount of cars on the roads. It made the place feel isolated, a feeling that was difficult to come by in the Netherlands; they were a small country with an area of only forty thousand squared kilometres, and a population of seventeen million. Iceland, on the other hand, had an area of over one hundred thousand squared kilometres, and a population of only three hundred thousand. They had over twice the area of the Netherlands, and a fraction of the population.

“It would be difficult to find anything like this outside of Iceland,” Elia agreed. “Perhaps the Faroe Islands, but that’s about it, as far as I know.”

Up ahead, the road curved, and they drew closer to the hills and the lake. Above them, the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining brightly. It had been odd, arriving the night before at ten o’clock to find the sun still out. Thankfully the curtains in their hotel had blocked nearly all of the light, but it had been as bright as noon when they had woken up that morning at eight o’clock.

“It’s incredible,” Sebastiaan muttered, watching as the light danced off the calm waters of Þingvallavatn. “Where will we be going after the waterfall? You said something about a church?”

Elia nodded. “There’s a famous church not far from the waterfall. After that, I’m sure we could find some hiking trails. There are quite a few here, from what I’ve heard.”

As they drew closer to the lake, the bushes became denser and taller. A fork in the road appeared, and they turned onto the smaller one which headed towards the water. A small yellow sign near the fork proclaimed it to be the way towards Vatnsvik, which Elia explained was a small creek that ran into Þingvallavatn. Sebastiaan realized that he had done more than his fair share of research for this trip.

They continued on along the road, now driving right alongside the lake. The water was impossibly calm, with hardly a ripple disturbing its cool surface. A small, rocky cliff ran along the other side of the road, surrounded by tall bushes and other plant life. The road was just large enough for two cars, and as large van trundled past, Elia had to pull over slightly onto the thin gravel shoulder to let it pass.

Eventually, they drew away from the lake and the road began to widen. Another fork appeared, and Elia turned onto the road that led to a small parking lot. It was only about half full, with other tourists and visitors milling about. Elia quickly parked the car, and Sebastiaan hopped out. Though it was summer, it wasn’t very hot, and he was quick to zipper up his sweater.

“I think the church is nearby, if I’m not mistaken,” Elia said, climbing out of the car and locking the doors.

Sebastiaan followed him through the parking lot and across a bridge that spanned a narrow, bubbling stream. Sure enough, a church could be seen not too far away, surrounded by a small forest, the first trees he had seen in a while. One could either continue straight, towards the church, or they could turn right, along a path that ran parallel to a tall stand-alone cliff that almost seemed to resemble a great stone wall.

“Where will we go first, then?” Sebastiaan asked.

“The waterfall is that way,” answered Elia, pointing to the right. “I don’t think it’s very far, so we can go see that first, and then visit the church on our way back.”

Sebastiaan nodded, grinning. “Lead the way.”

Elia smiled and, taking Sebastiaan’s hand in his own, started off towards the waterfall.

◊◊◊

Ágúst stood at the base of Öxarárfoss, looking up as the cascade of water tumbled down the cliff onto the rocks below. It certainly wasn’t the tallest waterfall in Iceland, nor was it the tallest he had visited that day, but it was no less magnificent. There were only a few tourists milling about, and so he was able to get some clear shots of the waterfall from multiple angles. He considered perhaps climbing up the cliff so that he could get some photographs from above the falls. It would not be difficult: He would only have to go back up the path a bit, and climb the cliff at a part that was not so steep or high.

He put his camera back in its case and folded up the tripod. It was too big to put in his case, but he was sure he could climb the cliff one-handed, or at least tuck the tripod under his arm if need be. He turned back towards the path, where packed dirt gave way to boardwalk. It did not take him long to find a part of the cliff that he could scramble up, using his free hand to steady himself only once, after nearly slipping on a loose rock.

Above the cliff, he was able to easily make his way through the bushes and shrubs covering the landscape. There was, of course, no path, and he wondered briefly if he would get in trouble for being up there, though he wasn’t particularly worried; there didn’t seem to be anyone around who would stop him.

His nephews would love it there. They were both still quite young, but already loved nature. Jónas, in particular, loved waterfalls in particular, and was obsessed with “adventuring”, which to him meant running around off the path, out of his mother’s sight. Öxarárfoss would be perfect for them; the walk from the parking lot was not too far, nor was the waterfall loud enough that it would frighten Rúnar.

Reaching the water, Ágúst went as close to the cliff’s edge as he dared. He leaned over, watching as the water crashed onto the rocks below. He quickly set up his tripod, placing his camera on top and turning it on. Pressing his eye to the viewfinder, he searched for an angle that included the least amount of people; there were several milling about near the base of the waterfall, climbing over rocks and taking photographs of their own. Ágúst noticed one man watching him, a curious look on his face, and as Ágúst looked up their eyes met.

He nearly stumbled back in surprise, and down at the bottom of the cliff Bilbo went completely still. He was staring at Thorin, his eyes wide, and there was an almost terrified look on his face. Thorin’s ears filled with the sound of his heart thudding in his chest, drowning out the rush of water beside him. The thought ran through his mind that perhaps Bilbo was remembering what had happened in East Anglia, in that small village by the sea over twelve hundred years ago, when Thorin’s hands had dripped with Bilbo’s blood.

The thought terrified him—maybe, because of what had happened, Bilbo would not want to see him. Why would he, after all? Thorin had _killed_ him, murdered him while Bilbo’s children hid cowering in the same room. He took a step forward, hesitating, searching Bilbo’s face for any clues as to what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Bilbo looked as sick as Thorin felt, and from where Thorin stood it looked as if he was breathing heavily, as if he could not fill his lungs with enough air.

Thorin reached for his camera, pulling it from the tripod, but paused before replacing it in the case. He wanted to see Bilbo, he _needed_ to see him, but did Bilbo want to see him? How would he react, if he were to approach him? Thorin frowned, his eyes focusing on Bilbo. He seemed to be struggling with what to do just as much as Thorin was, his forehead creased and his eyebrows drawn together.

It was then that Thorin noticed the man standing beside him. He wasn’t someone he recognized—he had never seen him before, in any of his lives. He had one hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and was talking to him with a concerned look on his face. Bilbo shook his head, shooting a quick, barely noticeable glance at Thorin. The man took Bilbo’s hand in his own, and Thorin felt his heart drop to his feet. Bilbo said something quickly, a panicked look spreading over his face, but Thorin turned away. He shoved his camera back into the case, hastily folding up the tripod.

He didn’t look back at Bilbo as he began making his way back towards the path, too scared about what he might see. A million thoughts were running through his mind, and he tried desperately to push them away. He hadn’t seen right, or maybe he’d misinterpreted—it couldn’t be what he thought it was. The angle was off, he’d been too far away; there was no way it could have been a romantic gesture.

Thorin groaned, resisting the urge to throw his tripod over the edge of the cliff as a surge of anger ran through him. He didn’t know why he was mad, not really, but he couldn’t help the anger as it bubbled up, leaving his chest feeling tight and his heart beating wildly behind his ribs. He descended the cliff quickly, slipping in his haste and scraping his hand against a rock. The tripod fell out from under his arm, and he swore loudly as he reached for it. He inspected it carefully, making sure it was undamaged. It had been rather expensive, and though at that moment he wanted desperately to hurl it against the rocks, it would set him back several thousands krónur to do so.

Standing, he looked back down the path, towards Öxarárfoss. Bilbo was so close—just a few yards away—but Thorin couldn’t make himself move from his spot at the bottom of the cliff. Bilbo probably didn’t even want to see him. Why would he? Thorin had killed him, and orphaned his children. Besides, he had someone else. Someone he loved.

An awful taste rose up in Thorin’s mouth at the thought, and he frowned. He was jealous—he knew he was, and he knew it was unreasonable. Bilbo had never been _his_ ; he had no claim over him. Why couldn’t Bilbo be happy? Up until five minutes ago, neither of them had known that the other existed. Thorin knew how selfish he was being, expecting Bilbo to have spent the past thirty-odd years alone, with only a dead philodendron for company.

Yet he couldn’t stop the feelings from rising up within him, as much as he tried to reason with himself. He _was_ selfish, he _was_ jealous, and the thought of Bilbo being with someone else—someone he loved as much they loved him—made Thorin want to scream.

He turned away from the direction of the waterfall, steeling himself as if he was expecting physical pain. If Bilbo was happy, who was Thorin to take that happiness away? Who was he to so violently disrupt the life Bilbo had made for himself? It was not fair to make him choose, and so Thorin would not present him with the choice.

Taking in a deep breath, he started off down the path, away from Öxarárfoss and away from Bilbo.

◊◊◊

The wood of the boardwalk pounded under Bilbo’s feet as he took off down the path. He could feel Elia’s eyes behind him, confused and concerned, but Bilbo pushed him from his thoughts—he couldn’t think about him, not now. He had given him some half-assed excuse about forgetting his phone in the car, and had insisted on going back for it alone. He knew Elia would ask questions later, but Bilbo didn’t care about that right now. What he cared about was Thorin.

He had felt his heart stop at the sight of him, standing atop the cliff. His mind had been flooded by so many memories, for a moment it had felt as if he might collapse. He remembered lying on a hard, dirt floor, with Thorin hovering above him, his hands dripping with blood— _his_ blood. In that moment, all Bilbo had wanted to do was run to Thorin, throw his arms around him, and never let go.

But then he’d felt Elia’s hand on his shoulder, and a sense of dread had seeped into him.

His mind had filled immediately with thoughts of _what am I going to do what am I going to do what am I going to do_. How could he even begin to explain this to Thorin? To _Elia_?

He’d stood there for several minutes, trying to figure out what he should do, before giving up. He had decided to do what any noble coward would do: run.

He couldn’t stand there beside Elia any longer, or feel his hand pressed against his skin for one more second. It had made him feel sick; not because of Elia, but because of himself.

Bilbo took in a deep breath, forcing Elia from his mind. It made him feel horrible guilty, pushing Elia to the side as if he were nothing, but he didn’t know how he would be able to face Thorin otherwise.

Up ahead, a familiar figure loomed into view, and Bilbo quickened his pace. Though his hair and clothes were different, Bilbo would be able to recognize Thorin anywhere. His feet slammed against the boardwalk, echoing against the rocky walls that bordered the pathway. His heart pounded in time with his footfalls, though he didn’t know whether it was from excitement or fear.

“Thorin!” he cried, raising his hand and waving it in the air.

Thorin turned to face him, the expression on his face an odd mix between relief and terror. Bilbo ran to him, throwing his arms across his shoulders without a thought. Thorin stood completely still for a moment, before his arms came to rest on Bilbo’s back. Bilbo let out a shaky breath; he could feel Thorin’s own heart pounding, and his hands were shaking against his shoulder blades.

“Why did you leave?” Bilbo whispered.

There was a moment where Thorin was silent, and Bilbo felt him shift to look down at him. He said something, softly, in Icelandic, and Bilbo realized he had been speaking Dutch. He let out a quiet laugh, and pulled back to look up at Thorin.

“Sorry,” he said, switching to English. “I forgot that you would probably not speak Dutch.”

Thorin’s eyebrow drew together, amusement flickering across his face. “You’re Dutch?” He sounded surprised, and Bilbo smiled, nodding.

“And you are Icelandic.”

Thorin’s smile was small, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Bilbo reached out, his hand on Thorin’s elbow. “Why did you leave?” he repeated, this time in a language Thorin would understand.

Thorin frowned. Bilbo could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he thought over his answer. “I... thought you would not want to see me,” he admitted, after a long stretch of silence.

Bilbo stared at him, his forehead creased. “Why would you think that?” he demanded. “Why would I not want to see you?”

“Do you not remember what happened last time?” Thorin asked. “How... how you died?”

“Of course I remember.” Bilbo frowned, looking up at Thorin and tightening his grip on his arm. “But I do not blame you. How could I? You didn’t know who I was. Honestly, I would have gladly killed you first, if I had a weapon.”

Thorin didn’t say anything, and Bilbo sighed. “Come on.” He motioned down the path. “Let’s walk.”

Thorin nodded, and they started off along the path in silence. They went around a corner, and it turned from boardwalk to gravel. The rocks crunched under Bilbo’s feet, and he kicked at one absently, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweater.

“You have to stop being so hard on yourself,” he said, after several minutes had passed. “Always acting like you have done innumerable wrongs, and no one can ever love you. We’ve both done terrible things, Thorin, but that does not mean we are terrible people—certainly not if we feel guilty and ashamed over what we’ve done.”

Thorin frowned. Bilbo reached over, wrapping his hand around one of Thorin’s. His mind shot back to Elia, waiting for him by the waterfall, and a wave of guilt rolled through him. But Thorin’s hand was warm and familiar, and though he felt he should, Bilbo didn’t want to let go.

“I know you have difficulties forgiving yourself,” he said, lacing his fingers through Thorin’s, “but right now, I’m asking you to. You can’t carry this guilt with you for the rest of your life.”

Thorin glanced down at their intertwined hands, his lips pressed together into a thin line. “I know,” he mumbled, looking away.

Bilbo wondered if Thorin knew about Elia. He had obviously seen him talking with Bilbo, but had he seen Elia’s hand wrapped around his? The thought sent a jolt of fear running through Bilbo. How could he explain it to Thorin? Sure, they had both had wives before, but that had been different—those marriages had been arranged, or expected, or necessary. But Bilbo was with Elia solely because he loved him, and the thought that he would now have to choose between Elia and Thorin broke his heart.

But Thorin hadn’t said anything—maybe he didn’t know, maybe he hadn’t seen. If he didn’t know, Bilbo didn’t have to tell him. He could figure something out, decide what he was going to do, and Thorin wouldn’t have to know. The idea of purposefully withholding information from Thorin made his stomach churn, but so did that of telling him the truth.

He motioned to the tripod Thorin was carrying. “Are you a photographer?” he asked, hoping to draw the conversation away from the possibility of Elia.

Thorin seemed surprised by the question, but he nodded after a moment. “I work for the Icelandair magazine,” he said. “ _Ævintýri_.”

“Oh, yes.” Bilbo smiled, hoping it did not seem strained or forced. “I read that on my flight here.”

“It’s not the greatest magazine, but it pays,” said Thorin with a shrug.

“I enjoyed it.”

Thorin gave a quiet laugh, glancing at Bilbo. “What do you do, then?” he asked.

“I’m a history professor at the University of Amsterdam,” Bilbo replied.

Thorin grinned. “Professor Baggins.”

“Professor van Hofwegen, actually,” Bilbo corrected. “Sebastiaan van Hofwegen.”

“Ágúst Þórisson,” said Thorin, giving a quick little bow, “at your service.”

“Ágúst,” Bilbo repeated, smiling. He stopped; they had reached the parking lot, and he pulled the rental car keys from his sweater pocket. “Here,” he said, unlocking the car and opening the driver’s side door. “We can talk more in here, where it’s warmer.”

Thorin slid into the passenger seat, tossing his case and tripod into the back. “So what does your husband do?” he asked, and Bilbo froze.

So he had seen, then. Bilbo closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, and closed the door. “Thorin,” he said, turning to face him. “I—”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Bilbo frowned, and sighed. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I didn’t know how, I didn’t want to upset you...” He trailed off, running his bottom lip between his teeth.

They were both silent for a long moment. “I’m not angry,” Thorin said eventually. “I’m not going to be... petty or jealous. I won’t hold it against you for... for loving someone else.”

The words sounded as if they were choking Thorin, and Bilbo hastily grabbed his hand again. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes, and he blinked them away.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he whispered.

“Maybe...” Thorin started, and then stopped, sucking in a deep breath of air. “Maybe it would be best if I left. You can’t really explain all this to your husband—”

“Boyfriend.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. “Okay,” Thorin said. “You can’t explain this to your boyfriend, and he’ll be wondering where you went, so it would probably be easier if I just... left.”

Bilbo sighed. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe.” He reached into the backseat, pulling forward a backpack. He rummaged through it for a minute before producing a pen. “Give me your hand,” he instructed. Thorin complied, and Bilbo scribbled his phone number onto the back of Thorin’s hand. “I’m only in Iceland for five days,” he said. “I’ll figure out what to do before I leave.”

Thorin nodded, and collected his things from the back. Placing his hand on the door handle, he hesitated for a moment, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s lips. It was quick and fleeting, but still left Bilbo flushed and full of guilt.

He watched as Thorin crossed the parking lot to another car and climbed in. He hoped that wasn’t the last he would see of him; he hoped they would both survive to see the end of this. Bilbo’s eyes never left the car as it pulled out and drove away.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Sebastiaan - Bilbo  
> Ágúst - Thorin


	11. Sólarlag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iceland, 2016 (Part 2)  
> 20th Life  
>  _The professor and the photographer_

Thorin opened his eyes, and let out a loud groan. He had been trying to fall asleep for the past three hours, at least, with no success. Scowling, he craned his neck so that he could see the clock resting on his bedside table—it was just past 1:30 in the morning. Though the room around him was dark, he could see the faintest amount of sunlight creeping in past the edges of the blackout curtains. Lifting himself up onto his elbows, he ran a hand through his mussed up hair and over his face.

It had been a day since he had seen Bilbo at Öxarárfoss, and though he had entered his number into his phone, he had yet to call or even message him. Of course, Bilbo had no way to contact him in return, which Thorin realized had been a mistake on his part. He had spent the previous day keeping a close eye on the news, frightened that he would see a story about a Dutch tourist killed in some freak accident, though to his relief no such story had appeared. Still, he worried; he of all people knew how quickly and suddenly death could occur. 

In the darkness, Thorin reached for his phone, his hand groping around on the nightstand until he found it. The brightness of the screen stung his eyes as he turned it on, and he squinted. He opened up his contacts, quickly finding Bilbo’s name at the very top of the list. He clicked on it, staring at the information—a name and a phone number—for a long while. Finally, he tapped on the small speech bubble beside Bilbo’s phone number, and a new message opened up. 

He didn’t know why he was finally messaging Bilbo then, at 1:30 in the morning. There were plenty of more reasonable times to send someone a text, when they would actually be awake and able to reply. But Thorin didn’t want to put it off anymore, because he knew if he did he might never get around to it. 

He stared at the blinking cursor for a long while, trying to figure out what to say. After what felt like an eternity, he finally typed out a simple message: _I hope everything is ok._ He read it over a dozen times before finally hitting send. A few seconds later, he added: _It’s Thorin._ For several minutes afterwards, he watched the screen, as if he expected Bilbo to reply. When he didn’t, Thorin finally placed his phone back on the nightstand and turned over on his side to once again try to get some sleep.

He pushed all thoughts of Bilbo from his mind, trying to make himself relax. Still, Bilbo continually managed to wheedle his way into Thorin’s thoughts—he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that they might never see each other again, that Bilbo was already dead or that he would be dead in a few hours, killed in some gruesome car crash or by a sudden fatal illness. 

His phone began ringing, the sudden noise piercing through the dark and startling Thorin into a sitting position. He scrambled for his phone, pausing when he saw that it was Bilbo’s name lighting up the screen. He hastily pressed “answer” and held it to his ear. 

“Bilbo?”

“Did I wake you up?” Bilbo asked. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Thorin said quickly. “I was already awake, it’s alright.”

“Why were still awake?” 

Thorin lied back, stifling a yawn. “I haven’t been able to sleep.” 

“Oh,” Bilbo said. “Me neither. I’ve just been thinking and...” He trailed off, letting out a loud sigh. “I don’t know. The past day has been hell for me.” 

Thorin was silent for a while, picking absently at the edge of his blanket. “I’m sorry,” he muttered eventually. 

“What? Why are you apologizing?” 

“This whole situation feels like my fault,” Thorin said. “I’m making you choose, and that’s not fair.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” snapped Bilbo, and Thorin could almost feel his glare through the phone. “I’ve told you this before—you are not at fault for everything. You are not Atlas, with the weight of the world on your shoulders. Believe it or not, you aren’t the only person capable of making decisions. _I_ decided to go after you the other day, so if anything, this is my fault.” He paused, letting out an annoyed huff. “Honestly. You need to stop trying to turn yourself into a martyr. It’s really very tiring, you know.” 

“I am not—” Thorin began to argue, but Bilbo cut him off. 

“Quiet, for God’s sake. I need you to listen to me, Thorin, and understand. Stop blaming yourself for everything that’s bad. Nothing you did could have stopped this from happening. I saw you at the exact moment you saw me, and nothing could have kept me from going after you, no matter how far or fast you ran.” 

There was a pause, and they were both silent. Bilbo took in a deep, shaking breath, sounding as if he was on the verge of tears. Thorin had the sudden and overwhelming urge to be with him—to touch him and hold him and just be _near_ him.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice much quieter than he was expecting. 

“I’m in the hotel parking lot, sitting in the car,” replied Bilbo. A moment later, he added, “I didn’t want to wake Elia.”

Thorin felt himself wince. “Right,” he muttered. 

There was a long silence. Thorin could feel all the unsaid words lingering on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said, but he pushed them down. He wouldn’t say them, not now, when Bilbo was hiding in his car in the middle of the night. 

Bilbo sighed. “I only have four more days in Iceland,” he said. “I’ll decide on what to do before I leave.”

Thorin nodded, though of course Bilbo couldn’t see him. “Yeah, alright.” A pause. “Will I see you before then?” 

Bilbo was silent for a while. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he admitted eventually. “I’ll text you to let you I’m okay, but... no, we shouldn’t see each other.”

Thorin pressed his lips together, trying to quell his disappointment. Of course what Bilbo was saying made sense, and he forced himself to be reasonable. “I understand.”

“Alright.” Bilbo took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Good night, Thorin.” 

“Good night.” 

There was the briefest of pauses, and then the line went dead. Thorin let his phone drop from beside his ear and closed his eyes, sighing.

◊◊◊

Bilbo was exhausted. He hadn’t slept properly in days, and as he sat on a rock at the end of a hiking trail he felt himself drifting. Though the air was cool, the sun on his face was warm, and the sound of the wind rustling through the trees was soothing. He wasn’t just tired physically, but emotionally as well. Every time he looked at Elia he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. If he stayed with him, he knew he would always be tormented by the _what ifs_ and the possibilities he let slip away. But if he left, he didn’t how he would be able to live with the guilt of what he did to Elia. 

“Bas. Bastiaan.”

Bilbo was pulled from his thoughts by Elia’s voice and a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, blinking in the bright sunlight filtering down through the leaves.

“Are you alright?” Elia asked, his forehead crinkling in concern. “You look pale.”

Bilbo nodded, forcing a smile onto his face. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“You’ve been tired this whole trip.” Elia knelt down so that his eyes were level with Bilbo’s. “Are you sure you’re not getting sick?”

“I’m positive.” Bilbo stood, stretching. “Thank you, Dr. Kuijpers.” 

Elia sighed, climbing back onto his feet. “Well, we’ll be home tomorrow,” he said, wiping the dirt from his knees, “so hopefully that will help.” 

The thought of home was both welcoming and terrifying. He would finally be able to just sit and think, but he would also have to make his decision. If he stayed in this situation much longer, he would reach a breaking point. 

Elia pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “We don’t have to do any more hiking,” he said, and Bilbo nodded. 

“That might be best.”

Elia smiled, his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo fought the urge to pull away. He didn’t know why the contact made him so uncomfortable, but it left a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he tried desperately to not let his discomfort show on his face. 

“Come on,” Elia said, motioning down the path. “Let’s begin the trek back, before you fall asleep.” 

◊◊◊

That evening, after they had returned to the hotel, Bilbo called Thorin. He made some excuse to Elia about going to buy food, and once again sat in the parking lot listening as Thorin’s phone rang on the other end of the line. 

After several rings with no answer, the line clicked and Thorin’s voice came on, reciting a voicemail message in Icelandic. Bilbo frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear, ending the call and then promptly redialing Thorin’s number. Still no answer. 

A small bubble of panic rose up in him as his mind automatically jumped to the worst conclusions. What if something had happened? What if Thorin was hurt, or even dead? Bilbo took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Just because Thorin wasn’t answering the phone, didn’t mean he was dead. People were away from their phones all the time; maybe he’d lost it, or turned the ringer off, or he was busy.

Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, Bilbo redialed the number once more. This time, when he got the voicemail, he let Thorin’s message play all the way through, trying to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling over. The beep sounded, and he took in a deep breath.

“Thorin,” he said, hoping the panic he was feeling didn’t bleed through into his voice. “It’s me. Bilbo. I just... I’ve tried calling you, and you aren’t answering. Please call me back as soon as you can, and just let me know that you’re alright. I’m leaving Iceland in the morning, and I would like to talk to you before then. Please just... call me as soon as you get this message, okay? Bye.” 

As he hung up the phone, Bilbo realized that his hands were shaking. He clasped them together in his lap, willing the tears not to fall and telling himself that Thorin was alright—he had to be alright. Bilbo didn’t know what he would do if he wasn’t. 

He sat there in the car for several minutes, lost in his fear and worry. His phone remained silent the entire time, and after a while he realized that Elia would grow suspicious if he took much longer, and certainly if he returned with no food. Starting the car, he pulled out of the hotel parking lot onto the road, trying to keep his mind from going over the many ways Thorin might have died. He told himself repeatedly that he wasn’t dead—he couldn’t be dead—and after he had said it enough times, he began to believe it.

◊◊◊

Thorin laughed, reaching out to scoop his youngest nephew into his arms as the little boy toddled towards him, a wide smile on his chubby face. 

“Hello, Rúnar,” he said, pulling the little boy up onto his lap. “Have you come to listen to Jónas’s story?” 

Kíli beamed in response, leaning over to Fíli, who was sitting on the couch beside Thorin. “Book!” he proclaimed, reaching for the story book in Fíli’s hand. Fíli quickly moved it out of his brother’s reach, holding it above his head.

“No, Rúnar!” he said, in a voice that was rather authoritative for a six-year-old. “You can’t even read yet, you don’t need my book.” 

Kíli settled back onto Thorin’s lap, still grinning blissfully. Thorin smiled, running a hand over his nephew’s dark hair.

“It’s alright, Jónas,” he said, patting his older nephew on the knee. “Keep reading.”

Shooting Kíli a glance out of the corner of his eye, as if daring him to try something, Fíli continued his reading of the book. It was some children’s story that, judging by the look on Dís’s face, Fíli had both heard and read several times before. Still, he took his time, carefully reading each word instead of reciting them from memory. 

When he had finished, Fíli ran off to his room in search of another story to read. Dís watched him go, an amused smirk on her face. “You don’t have to let him read you twenty books, you know,” she said, running a finger around the rim of her coffee mug. “Believe me, I know how painful it can be.”

Thorin laughed. “No, no, it’s fine. I don’t spend nearly enough time with either of them.” He ruffled Kíli’s hair, and the two-year-old swatted his hand away, giving him an annoyed glare. 

Víli appeared in the doorway that led into the kitchen. “Is this your phone, Ágúst?” he asked, holding up Thorin’s phone. “You left it in the kitchen. Someone’s been trying to call you.” 

Thorin frowned and stood, setting Kíli down on the couch and taking the phone from Víli. He had two missed calls from Bilbo, and one voicemail. “It’s someone from work,” he lied, glancing over his shoulder at Dís. “I should probably call them back. It shouldn’t take long.” 

Dís nodded, and Thorin slipped past Víli into the kitchen. He headed out onto the back deck, closing the door behind him. He didn’t even both to listen to the voicemail, calling Bilbo right away; he picked up on the first ring.

“Thorin?” There was an obvious tinge of both fear and relief in Bilbo’s voice, and Thorin realized how panicked he must have been; Thorin didn’t know what he would think if Bilbo didn’t answer his phone.

“Yes, it’s me,” he replied, and Bilbo let out a grateful sigh. 

“I was so worried,” he said. “When you didn’t answer, I started thinking that maybe something had happened...” His voice shook as he spoke, and Thorin wished desperately he could be with him to comfort him.

He leaned against the deck railing, shivering slightly as a cool wind blew through the backyard. “I’m sorry. I’m alright, I promise. I left my phone in another room, and didn’t hear it ringing.” 

“It’s okay.” There was a brief pause, and Bilbo took in a deep breath. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes, but I haven’t listened to it. I called you right away. Is it important?” 

“It’s just, we’re—I’m leaving Iceland tomorrow, and I thought I should let you know that... I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

Thorin’s heart began pounding in his chest, and his hand curled around the railing. He glanced through the back door, to where Dís was sitting on the living room floor playing with Kíli. She looked up at him and smiled, and he quickly turned away. Bilbo could be about to walk out of his life forever, and Thorin didn’t know how he would keep himself from breaking down in front of his family if that were to happen. He tightened his grip on the railing, steeling himself for what was about to come. 

“I love you,” Bilbo began, and Thorin realized he was holding his breath. “I have for a very, very long time. But... I’ve never been able to tell anybody, not really. No one could ever know—it’s always been some secret that I’ve had to keep hidden. Now, though, I have the chance to really love you. Not in secret, and not like it’s some shameful thing I have to keep locked away... and I think that if I let this opportunity slip away, I will never be able to forgive myself.”

Thorin straightened, unsure of what he should be feeling. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

“I won’t lose you again, Thorin; not if I can help it.” 

Relief flooded Thorin’s heart, and he had to resist the urge to fall to the ground in joy. “What will you be doing, then?” he asked. He didn’t know if he had ever been so scared before.

“For now I will be going back home, to the Netherlands,” Bilbo explained. “I’ll set things right with Elia, and then... I was thinking that perhaps I’ll come back to Iceland.” He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more, but then he seemed to think better of it.

“Will you be coming to stay permanently?”

“Not at first, no. It would be too complicated—I still have my job, and I couldn’t leave at such short notice. But we’ll be together. I promise you that.”

◊◊◊

It was just past noon the next day when Bilbo’s plane touched down in Amsterdam. He could see the relief spread across Elia’s face as the plane slowed down, and he admitted to himself that he felt some of that same relief. Every patch of turbulence had made his heart jump, convinced that the plane was about to crash and he was going to die. He wanted desperately to make it back to Iceland to see Thorin, and he couldn’t do that if he was dead. 

He glanced over at Elia, and felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had made his decision and he was going to stick with it, but it was still going to be difficult. He knew, however, that it was the right thing to do; staying would only slowly destroy their relationship. Neither he nor Elia could ever really be happy in that relationship again. The longer Bilbo put off ending it, the longer he held Elia back from moving on with his life.

Thankfully, it did not take long for them to get off the plane and find their luggage. The car ride home was silent; neither of them spoke, and as Bilbo drove he went over what he was going to tell Elia in his mind. None of the scenarios he thought of ended happily. He could feel Elia looking at him as he pulled into their driveway, and Bilbo was careful to avoid his gaze. 

“Are you alright?” Elia asked as Bilbo moved to get out of the car. 

He paused, his hand on the door. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “I’m fine. Let’s just get inside.” He knew Elia didn’t believe him, but he still followed him as he climbed out of the car and grabbed his suitcase from the trunk. 

Inside, the house smelled of old, stale air. Bilbo set his luggage down in the entryway and went to open windows in the kitchen and living room, letting warm summer air waft in. When he went back to the entryway, Elia was standing by the open door, a concerned look on his face.

“Bas,” he said, setting his suitcase down on the floor with a dull thud. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I know something’s bothering you, and I hate that you won’t tell me what it is. I want to help.”

Bilbo frowned, his hands twisting together. “There’s nothing you can do to help.”

Elia’s eyebrows drew together, his forehead creasing. “What do you mean?” He closed the door, slowly, and it creaked on its worn hinges. “What’s the matter?”

Tears welled up in Bilbo’s eyes, and he finally said the words that had been lingering on his tongue for the past several days. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was barely a whisper, but he could tell that Elia had heard him, the look of worry on his face deepening. 

“What can’t you do anymore?” he asked. 

Bilbo glanced at him and then the ceiling, trying to keep the tears from falling. “This,” he said, motioning to the space between them. “I can’t do this... this relationship anymore.”

There was a second of silence that seemed to drag on forever. Elia had gone pale, and was picking at the skin around his fingernails: a nervous tick Bilbo hadn’t seen him do in a long time. 

“You’re leaving me?”

Bilbo nodded, his eyes on the floor, unable to look at Elia anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I... I just—”

“Why?” Elia moved forward until he was standing right in front of Bilbo. “What went wrong, what’s happened to make you feel this way? I don’t understand, Sebastiaan. Why are you doing this?” 

It had been a long time since Elia had called him Sebastiaan: He had always been Bas, or Bastiaan. Never Sebastiaan. “If I told you,” he said, running his tongue over his dry lips, “you wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I was lying; that I was making it all up.” 

“Try me.”

Bilbo frowned, trying to decide whether or not he should explain everything to Elia. The chances of him being believed were very slim, but he couldn’t see how it would make the situation worse. The way he looked at it, this was bound to end up as a shit show anyways. 

Sighing, he wandered into the living room and sat down on the couch. Elia followed him, taking a seat on the chair. This explanation could take some time, if Elia didn’t stop him outright. Bilbo took in a deep breath, wiping his hands on his pants. 

“Do you remember our first full day in Iceland, when we went to the waterfall in Þingvellir?” he asked, and Elia nodded. Bilbo continued, “I saw someone there… someone I knew, but hadn’t seen in a really long time.”

Elia frowned, his forehead creasing. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I hadn’t seen him in nearly thirty-seven years.”

“Bastiaan, you’re thirty-six,” Elia said, one eyebrow raised. “That makes no sense.”

“I said you wouldn’t believe me.”  

Elia’s frown deepened, and he leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “Keep going,” he prompted, and so Bilbo did. 

◊◊◊

Elia let out a long, drawn-out sigh, running a hand through his hair and over his face. Bilbo watched him, his hands clasped together. It had been well over an hour since they had arrived home, but their suitcases still sat, abandoned, in the entryway. To Bilbo’s surprise, Elia had listened quietly and politely while he had spoken, and had let him say his piece. Now that Bilbo was finished, he waited in silence for Elia to speak, expecting him to burst out in rage any second. 

But that never happened. Instead, Elia leaned back, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Bastiaan,” he began, his voice unexpectedly calm, “what you’re talking about... it’s impossible. You’re saying that you have been _reincarnated_ —that you’ve lived dozens of lives, across dozens of centuries. It just... it doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible.”

Bilbo frowned. “So you don’t believe me then?” Though he didn’t know how it would help if Elia believed him, the fact that he didn’t was still disappointing.

“How can I?” Elia asked with a sigh. “It makes no sense, Sebastiaan. Reincarnation just isn’t possible.”

“I can prove it to you.” 

Elia’s eyebrows rose. “How?” 

Bilbo’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he thought—what could he possibly tell Elia to make him believe him? He took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “ _Blàr na h-Eaglaise Brice_ ,” he said, and Elia frowned in confusion. “The Battle of Falkirk Muir. Took place on the seventeenth of January, 1746, near Falkirk, Scotland, during the Jacobite Rising of 1745. Only a few dozen Jacobites were killed, by my estimates, but among them was Benjamin MacDonnell, nephew to Fergus MacDonnell, chieftain of Clan MacDonnell of Glengarry.” 

Elia was silent for a moment, as if processing the information he had just been given. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “You _are_ a history professor, and it’s therefore your job to know history.”

“Yes, but I specialize more in ancient history,” Bilbo pointed out. “Why would I go through all the trouble of concocting this story and doing all this research about the Jacobite Rising of 1745? _When_ would I have done it? Elia, please, I’m not lying to you. Wouldn’t it just be simpler for me to end this quickly and be done with it? But I’m trying to explain this to you—I’m trying to tell you the truth.”

Elia didn’t say anything, and his eyes were narrowed as he looked at Bilbo. 

Bilbo leaned forward, his gaze focused on Elia. “How many languages do I speak?” he asked.

Confusion flashed across Elia’s face. “What does that have to do with this?”

“Just answer the question.”

Elia sighed, but still replied, “Two. Dutch and English.” 

“Now give me a sentence, or a book passage, or anything, and I’ll translate it into Romanian or Danish or Gaelic or Latin or Old English.” 

“This is ridiculous, Sebastiaan.”

“Please, Elia,” pleaded Bilbo, “just do it.” 

Elia gave him a long look, before standing and crossing the room to the bookshelf. It took him a few moments before he chose a book, and he was quick to flip it open and find a passage. Returning to the chair, he passed it to Bilbo—it was Leo Tolstoy’s _War and Peace_. “Page 585, paragraph two,” Elia said, tapping the page and settling back into his seat. 

Bilbo quickly scanned the passage. “What language?”

“Romanian.” It was obvious that Elia thought this was all a joke—he didn’t actually believe Bilbo could translate a section of _War and Peace_ into Romanian.

In all honesty, Bilbo didn’t know if he could do it himself. It had been a long time since he had spoken or even thought in Romanian, and as he looked at the sentences lining the tissue-thin pages he struggled to find the proper translation. The Romanian language lingered on the tip of his tongue, just barely out of reach. 

“Another language, perhaps?” 

Bilbo glanced up to see Elia watching him, an expectant look on his face, and shook his head, toughening his resolve. He centered all his focus on the first three words—“The elder Rostov”—and imagined that he was back in Romania in the 1980s. He imagined a conversation with his mother, or a neighbour, or a co-worker, about the weather or groceries or something equally mundane, and then suddenly the words were there, swimming around his mind as if they had never been forgotten. He looked back down at the page, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. 

“ _Bătrânul Rostov_ ,” he began, and though the words felt clunky in his mouth they were not difficult to find. They became easier to pronounce as he went on, and when he finally looked up at the end of the paragraph Elia was eyeing him with a look that was both surprised and confused. Bilbo closed the book, and a long silence began to stew around them. 

“When did you learn Romanian?” Elia whispered, after several minutes had passed. 

“I was a factory worker in Bucharest in the 1980s,” explained Bilbo. “Cosmin Lăzărescu. I was a part of the revolution that took place in December 1989.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“I promise you, I’m telling the truth,” Bilbo said. “If you still don’t believe me, look up some of these names; I’m sure you could find something on them. Maybe not Cosmin or Benjamin, but Jakob Nielsen—a portraitist in Copenhagen during the 1820s. Or Franklin May—a pirate active in the Caribbean in the 1710s, hanged in 1714. Or even Edmund Holland—an English marquess in the late 19th century.” Bilbo could tell he was becoming desperate, though he didn’t quite know why. It didn’t matter if Elia believed him or not: It wouldn’t change anything. 

“Are you telling me you were a pirate?” Elia asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “And then an English lord?”

Bilbo nodded. “I know it sounds ridiculous—”

“It’s beyond ridiculous,” Elia interjected, scoffing. “It’s absurd. Honestly, Sebastiaan, do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“How could I? What you’re saying is impossible—it makes no sense.” Elia stood and began pacing the room, his arms crossed over his chest. Bilbo watched him, _War and Peace_ still clutched tightly in his hands. Neither of them said anything, and after a while, Elia stopped his pacing. He stood in front of the living room window, his face buried in his hands. “Are you really going to leave?” he asked, his voice quiet. 

Bilbo looked down at the book in his lap, picking idly at the aged pages. “Yes,” he said, after a few seconds had passed. “Yes, I think it would be best if I did. It... It wouldn’t be fair to you if I stayed.” 

Elia didn’t reply, and a moment later Bilbo stood. He carefully replaced _War and Peace_ on the shelf, and as he passed by Elia he hesitated. It felt almost as if he should say something, but he didn’t know what, and so he said nothing. He left Elia standing by the window, and disappeared upstairs.

By evening, he was gone. 

◊◊◊

“Why do you look so pleased?” 

Thorin looked up from picking through a pile of half-eaten nachos, his eyebrows raised. Dwalin was watching him from across the table, his head tilted slightly to the side and a curious look on his face. It was odd, Thorin thought, how that face was both well-known to him and unfamiliar. It was the face of his childhood friend, Gunnar—bushy-bearded with stern eyebrows and a shaved head—but also that of his brother-in-arms, Dwalin—though it was now significantly less Dwarvish. 

Thorin frowned, picking up a nacho soggy with grease and popping it in his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Dwalin shrugged. “You just seem... happier. More pleasant.” He leaned back, studying Thorin with an almost suspicious look in his eyes. “Did something happen? Something good?” 

“Nothing’s happened.” Thorin shook his head, resting his elbows on the worn wood of the table. The voices of the people around them mingled with the pulsing music, and he had to strain to hear everything Dwalin was saying.

“Are you sure? Because you seem real fucking pleased with something, and I wanna know what. It’s been a long time since _you_ suggested we go out somewhere.” Dwalin raised his eyebrows, as if prompting Thorin to share.

Thorin scowled. He should have known inviting Dwalin to go out to the bar would evoke suspicion, but he couldn’t have stayed in his sorry little apartment any longer. He desperately wanted to tell someone about Bilbo—if only so that he could prove he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life bitter and alone—but he knew it would bring up more questions than he knew how to answer. 

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “I’ve just had a good week for once.” 

From the look Dwalin gave him, Thorin could tell Dwalin didn’t believe him, at least not entirely. “You should have better weeks more often,” Dwalin said, taking a sip of his beer. “It’s more fun for me.” 

Thorin laughed. “I’ll try.” 

His phone began vibrating, and he reached into his back pocket, pulling it out. It was Bilbo.  Thorin’s heart jumped at the sight of his name lighting up the screen. He wondered briefly what time it was in Amsterdam, and why Bilbo would possibly be calling him. He looked up, giving Dwalin an apologetic look.

“It’s my mother,” he said, standing. “I should probably answer.”

Dwalin’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Since when does your mother call you?” he asked. “And at eleven o’clock at night on a Friday?” 

Thorin shrugged in response, and quickly weaved his way through the crowded bar to the door. It was much quieter outside on the street, with few people milling about. He pressed answer and held the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the front of the building, his free hand dug into the pocket of his jacket. It was noticeably cooler than it had been when he had arrived at the bar, and he shivered slightly as his back pressed against the cold brick. 

“Hello.” Bilbo sounded tired, and Thorin frowned.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “What time is it there?”

“Just past one,” Bilbo replied. Thorin heard him stifle a yawn.

“Why are you still awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Bilbo explained. “I... I left Elia earlier today.”

Thorin straightened, his eyes widening in surprise. “Already?” Bilbo had left Iceland just that morning. Thorin thought it would be at least another few days before he broke up with Elia.

“I didn’t want to prolong it any longer,” said Bilbo. “I tried to explain it to him, but he didn’t believe me. Not that I really expected him to.”

“You told him? About... how you know me?”

“Yes. I just felt that I owed him something—some sort of explanation for why I was leaving. He didn’t accept it, of course. He thought I was crazy.”

Thorin sighed. “Was he angry?”

“I think he was, yes, but he didn’t show it.” Bilbo shuffled, and Thorin wondered where he was—a hotel, maybe, or a friend’s house. “He seemed very calm, really, though of course I knew he was upset. He wanted me gone as soon as possible, and I don’t blame him.” 

“Where are you staying, then?” Thorin asked. 

“I’m at my cousin’s house in Haarlem, for now,” Bilbo said. “But I’ve just booked my flight to Iceland. I’ll be there in four days.”

Thorin pushed away from the wall in surprise. “Four days? You’re coming back so soon?” 

Bilbo’s voice was soft when he answered. “I don’t know how much time we have together. I want to be with you for as long as I can, and I won’t waste any of that time skulking around Amsterdam. Of course, I’ll have to come back to deal with my job and belongings, but I’ll do that as quickly as I can. Maybe you could come visit me in Amsterdam.”

Thorin smiled, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. “I’d like that,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Netherlands.”

Bilbo laughed—it was the type of laugh that bubbled to the surface not because something was funny, but because you were so overwhelmed with joy that you couldn’t keep it in. 

“When does your flight get in?” Thorin asked, trying to keep from laughing himself. 

“11:30 at night on Thursday.”

“I’ll be at the airport to pick you up, then.” 

“Alright.” 

Thorin could hear Bilbo’s smile in his words, and realized that for the first time in a while he sounded truly happy. He hoped desperately that it would last, and that nothing would happen to take that happiness away. It was a distant, unrealistic hope, but he hoped it nonetheless. 

“I love you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I love you, too,” Bilbo replied. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Thorin grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

◊◊◊

**Four Days Later**

Bilbo watched as the ground slowly rose up to meet the plane. He leaned back in his seat, his body shaking as the wheels made contact with the tarmac and the plane began to slow. An announcement came on telling the passengers first in Icelandic and then in English to remain seated until the plane had come to a complete stop and the seatbelt sign had turned off. 

It took several minutes before the plane reached the gate. As soon as the seatbelt sign clicked off, people were on their feet, crowding the aisle as they tried to get to their carry-ons stowed in the overhead compartments. Bilbo leaned forward, retrieving his own bag from where it had been stored under the seat in front of him. He waited patiently for people to begin disembarking, his hands twisted around the straps of his bag. He was oddly nervous, though he didn’t know why. It was only Thorin.

As the other passengers began inching their way off the plane, he stood and made his way into the aisle, his bag clutched in front of him. He only vaguely remembered where to go once he got off the plane, and so he followed after everyone else, frequently checking the signs hanging overhead. It was a small airport, and so it did not take long at all to reach the baggage carousels, where people had gathered to greet friends and loved ones as they arrived. 

Bilbo scanned the crowd for Thorin, finding him quickly. Though he was standing near the back, he towered above most of the other people gathered, and so Bilbo spotted him easily. He felt all his nervousness dissipate at the sight of him, a smile spreading across his face as he rushed forward. He pushed his way quickly through the crowd, nearly dropping his bag several times before finally reaching Thorin. He threw his arms around his shoulders, not caring that there were dozens of people around them. It didn’t matter who saw them, it didn’t matter what they thought. For the first time, Bilbo could love Thorin, wholly and completely.

“Hello,” he greeted, his hands clinging to the back of Thorin’s shirt. 

Thorin laughed quietly. “Hi,” he replied. “How was your flight?”

Bilbo pulled back slightly, shrugging. “It was alright. Tiring.”

“You couldn’t have gotten an earlier flight?”

“This one was cheapest,” Bilbo said with a smirk. 

“Fair enough.” Thorin stepped back, motioning to the baggage carousels. “You have luggage?”

Bilbo nodded, and they made their way over to the proper carousel. It had not yet started, and it likely wouldn’t for another few minutes. 

“Where do you live, then?” Bilbo asked, turning his attention from the carousel to Thorin.

“Vesturbær, in the west of the city,” Thorin replied. “It’s not far from the Háskóli Íslands.” 

Bilbo’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “The what?” 

“The University of Iceland,” Thorin corrected, giving him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t speak any Icelandic.

“It’s fine,” Bilbo said with a shrug. “I wonder if they need any history professors.” He paused, frowning. “Though of course the whole Icelandic thing might present an issue.” 

Thorin grinned. “Maybe I could teach you some,” he suggested, “though I don’t know if I’d be a good teacher.”

“It’s not that difficult, especially if you only have one student.”

A light atop the carousel began flashing, and a few seconds later it started spinning. Suitcases appeared after another moment, and Bilbo watched carefully for his own. It did not take long to find it, and after he grabbed it Thorin led them out of the airport to the parking lot. Though it was past midnight, the sun had only just set, and Bilbo knew it would only be a few hours before it rose again. 

Thorin lived about fifty minutes away from the airport. Bilbo fell asleep only a short while into the drive, curled up in the passenger seat of Thorin’s car, listening to a man on the radio prattle on in Icelandic. He woke up to Thorin tapping him on the shoulder, telling him that they had arrived. 

“Come on,” Thorin said, getting out and circling the car to the passenger side door. He opened it for Bilbo, pulling him out and to his feet. “I’ll just grab your suitcase, and we can go up.”

“I can—” Bilbo began, but he was interrupted by a long yawn escaping past his lips. “I can carry it myself.”

Thorin smiled and popped the trunk, quickly retrieving the suitcase. “That’s alright,” he said. “I can handle it.” He took Bilbo’s hand with his free one and led him across the parking lot to the building doors. He lived on the fourth floor and so they took the elevator, Bilbo leaning on his shoulder as the floor numbers slowly climbed up. 

Thorin’s apartment was small, with one bedroom and a kitchen that was barely large enough to fit a table. The decorations were almost non-existent, save for a family picture that looked to be at least ten years old and a dead plant in the living room. It was such a stark contrast to his own home that Bilbo struggled to believe someone actually lived there.

Of course, he realized after a moment, his home was no longer his. He had decided to let Elia keep it, and had already collected some of his things; he would be getting the rest when he returned to Amsterdam in two weeks. 

Thorin went to put Bilbo’s suitcase in the bedroom, and Bilbo followed after him. Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom was rather bare, but impeccably neat. Bilbo noticed with amusement that Thorin had even made the bed with hospital corners. Thorin set the suitcase down near the closet, and Bilbo settled himself onto the bed. He hadn’t realized until he got into the car how tired he was, but it was becoming a struggle to keep his eyes open. Thorin seemed to notice this and sat down beside him, a small smile on his lips.

“Why don’t you get ready for bed?” he suggested, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s temple.

Bilbo nodded, and let out a loud yawn. “I think that would be a good idea,” he said.

**◊◊◊**

Thorin woke up slowly the next morning. The room was still dark because of the blackout curtains, but he knew it was likely around nine o’clock. Bilbo was still sound asleep beside him, his breathing even and deep. Thorin lay in bed for several minutes before finally crawling out, careful not to disturb Bilbo as he slipped out into the hallway. 

He turned the news on in the living room, the volume low, and went about making himself a cup of coffee. He had been given a few days off of work by his boss, and so he did not let himself worry about upcoming shoots and issues. Instead, he watched some boring morning talk show while he sipped his coffee, and had a relaxing morning for once. 

He was beginning to consider making himself some breakfast when the bedroom door opened and Bilbo shuffled out into the hallway. His eyes were squinting at the bright light filtering in through the living room window, and his hair was still ruffled with sleep.

“Good morning,” Thorin greeted, and Bilbo gave him a sleepy smile.

“ _Góðan daginn_ ,” he replied, coming to sit beside Thorin on the couch.

Thorin looked at him in surprise. “Where did you learn to say ‘good morning’ in Icelandic?”

“The Internet.”

“What else can you say, then?” Thorin asked with a smirk. 

Bilbo thought for a moment. “ _Sæll_. And _ég heiti Bilbo_.” 

Thorin smirked. “It’s a good start,” he said. “Your pronunciation isn’t too bad, either.” 

“Thanks,” Bilbo said, curling up against Thorin’s side.

“How did you sleep?” Thorin asked.

“Pretty good. Though your mattress is a bit lumpy.”

Thorin’s eyebrows drew together. “No it isn’t.” 

Bilbo gave a snort. “Oh, yes it is. How old is it? Did you get it off the streets or something?”

Thorin frowned. He had had the mattress for a long time, he realized; since he had moved into the apartment, actually, nearly seven years ago. “Well, I don’t mind it. Feel free to spend several thousand krónur on a new one.”

“It’ll do,” Bilbo said with a shrug, placing a quick kiss on Thorin’s cheek. “For now.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes and gave a short laugh. He reached for the remote, turning the TV off, and stood. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, grabbing his own empty mug. 

“Oh, yes please,” Bilbo said, standing and following Thorin to the kitchen. He paused by the side table still holding the dead philodendron, which Thorin had been meaning to throw out for over a week now. “I think your plant is dead,” Bilbo said, poking at the brown, lifeless leaves. 

“Yeah, I know,” Thorin said, ducking into the kitchen. “Dís gave it to me a few months ago, but I completely forgot about it.”

Bilbo appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. “How is your sister?” he asked.

“She’s well,” Thorin replied. “Busy, as one would be with a six- and two-year-old.”

“That’s good to hear. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her or the boys.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” As Thorin restarted the coffee machine, he tried to think of the last time Bilbo had interacted with Dís or Fíli and Kíli. The most recent he could remember was Denmark, when Bilbo had been hired to paint a portrait of Thorin and his siblings. Neither of his nephews had been born then, however. He turned to face Bilbo, leaning against the counter. “I’ll have to arrange a meeting.” 

“Who will you introduce me as?” Bilbo asked, coming forward and wrapping his arms around Thorin’s waist. “Sebastiaan, your Dutch boyfriend?” 

“Oh, that would make my sister very happy.”

“The Dutch part or the boyfriend part?”

“The boyfriend part,” Thorin said. “I’m not sure on her feelings about the Dutch, but I don’t she’ll care about your nationality. She’ll just be happy that now there’s a possibility I won’t be spending the rest of my life alone.”

Bilbo laughed. “Is she worried about that?”

“My mother certainly is. She calls Dís two or three times a week to ask if I’m still single.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to introduce me to her, as well.” 

“I don’t know if I want to put you through that,” Thorin said with a laugh. 

“I’m tough,” Bilbo said, reaching around Thorin to grab the coffee pot, filled with freshly brewed coffee. “I could handle it.”

◊◊◊

That evening Bilbo sat on the couch in Thorin’s living room, trying to slog his way through a book about the various tribes that had existed in Germania Inferior. He had an open notebook on the armrest beside him, and though he was trying to make notes on any particularly useful or interesting information, he was finding it nearly impossible to concentrate. He had to reread every paragraph two or three times, and it was taking him nearly ten minutes to read one page.  

Frowning, he glanced at Thorin, stretched out beside him with a laptop balanced on his legs. He was transferring pictures from his camera to the computer, and was editing others at the same time. He had said something to Bilbo earlier that day about having the next few days off work, but Bilbo supposed he didn’t have anything else to do; he knew that Thorin was the type of person who let his work consume his life. 

Turning his attention back to his book, Bilbo let out a loud sigh. He felt nervous, though he knew he didn’t really have any reason to. His heart kept leaping in his chest, and his mouth was dry and chalky. It was almost like he was going to be sick.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asked, looking at him with an expression of concern on his face.

“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine.” Bilbo forced a smile onto his face, and looked away quickly. 

The silence that settled over them felt almost suffocating. The only sounds that filled the room were the clicking of Thorin’s finger on the track pad and the occasional whir of a car driving past. Bilbo stared at the pages of his book, but he wasn’t reading any of the words; he was trying to figure out a way to ask what he wanted to ask. How did one go about this sort of thing? He had no idea—he knew how it was done traditionally, of course, but he didn’t think that would work in this situation. No, it would just be awkward and uncomfortable. Maybe he should just go out and say it. That wouldn’t be weird, would it? He didn’t see any other way of doing it. 

He resisted the urge to groan out loud, clenching his jaw until his teeth ached. He wished it wasn’t so complicated—he really wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. Perhaps it would be best if he just asked it outright. If he tried to do it any other way he would no doubt turn into a fumbling idiot, something he very much wanted to avoid.  

The pages of his book began to crinkle, and he realized that he had been steadily tightening his grip on it. Several of the pages were now wrinkled, and he scowled as he tried to smooth them out. He had no idea what he was doing, but he knew he needed to do it. He would spend the rest of his life regretting it if he didn’t. 

Taking in a deep breath, Bilbo closed the book, straightening the creased cover. He glanced sideways at Thorin; he was staring intently at a picture on his computer screen, a small crease between his eyebrows. Bilbo’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he let out his breath slowly. The more he thought about what he was about to do, the stupider it seemed, and so he pushed all thoughts of how badly it might go from his mind, and steeled his resolve.

Lifting his head, he found that he was unable to look at Thorin directly. Instead he stared straight ahead, focusing his attention on the blank TV screen, covered in streaks of dust. 

“Thorin.” His voice sounded frail, and as the name left his lips Bilbo almost felt a wave of nausea wash over him. As soon as he knew Thorin was looking at him, Bilbo forced himself to face him, his hands twisting together in his lap. “Will you marry me?” 

There was a second of silence as a stunned expression worked its way across Thorin’s face. Bilbo felt a heat spread across his face as his cheeks turned a blazing red, and he looked away.

“I know it doesn’t mean anything,” he said, feeling a sudden need to explain himself, “not really. It won’t change how much I love you, and it won’t last beyond this lifetime, either… but for the first time, we don’t have to hide or lie about our relationship. And I just think, you know, we should take advantage of that, for however long it might last. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a big affair or anything; it doesn’t even have to be a real wedding—”

“Bilbo.” Thorin reached over, placing a hand on Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo cut himself off immediately, realizing that he had begun to ramble. A soft smile had spread across Thorin’s lips, and it only grew as he gently turned Bilbo’s face towards him. “Of course I’ll marry you.” 

The words brought an immediate sense of relief to Bilbo, and he couldn’t help but let out a loud sigh. Thorin laughed, pressing their lips together. 

“I did ask you first,” he mumbled, pulling back for a moment. 

Bilbo grinned. “That doesn’t really count, though,” he argued. “It was a hypothetical proposal—we didn’t know if or when it would be possible. But now it is possible.”

“Whatever you say.” Thorin reached over, closing his laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “This will certainly be an interesting story to explain to my family.”

Bilbo laughed. “I don’t know how I’ll even bring the subject up with my relatives.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Thorin said with a shrug. “We always do.”

◊◊◊

**1 Month Later**

Bilbo stood in a wide field, surrounded by blades of grass so tall they touched the tips of his fingers. The sky above was cloudy, and the forecast predicted rain that afternoon. He was hoping it would hold off for just a few more hours. He took in a deep breath, breathing in the salty air and faint scent of wildflowers. In only four hours, he and Thorin would be married; the thought brought a wide smile to his lips. 

Behind him, he heard the sounds of cars driving past. They were stopped on the side of a road only thirty minutes north of Reykjavík. Thorin had wanted to stop to take pictures of the coastline; Bilbo could see him in the distance, near the edge where the field dropped off in a sheer cliff to the sea. 

Bilbo closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. He would be returning to Amsterdam in three days, for however long it took him to sort out his belongings. He had cancelled his scheduled return trip two weeks ago, staying in Iceland much longer than he had planned so that the wedding could happen as quickly as possible, if it could really be called a wedding. It was going to be a short civil ceremony in an office in Reykjavík, with only a few guests. It would be over in less than an hour. 

He wondered what would happen next. How much longer did they have? Where would they go after this life? There was no way of possibly knowing—he would simply have to wait, and see what happened, though really he didn’t mind not knowing. 

In his mind, he saw the rolling green hills of the Shire, still fresh in his memory after all these years. Though he had lived in dozens of places, and each one meant something to him, the Shire still felt like home. The rooms and corridors of Bag End and the streets of Hobbiton still lived in his memory, and he had never lost the desire to go back. 

A wisp of warm air blew against his face, bringing with it the scent of freshly tilled earth and dewey grass. Bilbo opened his eyes, looking up to see the sky stretching out above him, blue and expansive with all traces of the coming rain gone. In the distance, he could hear Thorin calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Characters_  
>  Sebastiaan - Bilbo  
> Ágúst - Thorin  
> Sigrún - Dís  
> Jónas - Fíli  
> Rúnar - Kíli  
> Hlynur - Víli  
> Gunnar - Dwalin
> 
> So that's it. I can't believe I've finally finished this fic. I started working on the outline over a year ago, and I never really believed that I would actually sit down and write the whole thing. Of course there were a lot of changes along the way, but I did it, and I'd like to thank everyone who read and commented and left kudos. You guys really helped me keep going and actually finish this, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)


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